


Club Starkiller

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Deepthroating, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Flogging, Fluff and Angst, Forced Orgasm, Gratuitous Smut, Identity Reveal, Impact Play, Japanese Rope Bondage, Kinda, Multiple Orgasms, Naked Female Clothed Male, Name-Calling, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Paddling, Pet Names, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Secret Identity, Shameless Smut, Shibari, Single Romantic Pairing, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Submissive Character, Top Kylo Ren, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, and probably other things too oops, multiple sexual pairings, snoke is dead i guess lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 61,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: Tl;dr BDSM sex with Kylo Ren, now with an Actual Plot(TM)! Buckle up, my friends.Tagged as both KyloRen!Reader and KyloRen|OC because the main female character does have a name but the description is intentionally vague to allow for easy inserting. /shrugLoosely based on Masters of the Shadowlands by Cherise Sinclair.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Ben Solo/Reader, Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 361
Kudos: 586





	1. In the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY GETTING AROUND TO REPOSTING THIS
> 
> *****
> 
> Just a heads up that while this fic is intentionally structured to show more of the BDSM negotiations than most fics, it of course won't fully resemble the kind of safe, sane, and consensual play in real life. Rest assured that this particular fic is written from a place where the main character wants everything that happens--and she always has her safe
> 
> word if she doesn't. However, if you're highly sensitive to issues of consent and need very explicit verbal affirmations for every bit of play, etc, you may want to skip out on this fic (or at least be warned that that won't always be the case).
> 
> There are no (deliberate) representations of non-con or dub-con in this fic, but the wording and events may trigger an emotional response for some people depending on triggers/etc. Please be advised accordingly.
> 
> The following is a small teaser chapter for this fic.

Golden light was shining through the sole window of her cramped quarters.

She took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Leather was too cliché, she’d decided. So was lace. Her lips flattened into a thin line; this would have to do. Heather-grey straps of a camisole swing dress stuck to her shoulders, fabric far too light and airy for the sultry overtone she’d hoped for. She sighed, grabbed an unpretentious clutch, and headed out the door—there wasn’t, after all, time to waste. The place she was going imposed a strict window for first admission: come between 20:00 and 20:20, or don’t come at all.

Club Starkiller was Starkiller Base’s worst-kept-best-kept secret: just enough people knew that it teetered precariously on the edge of exclusive. There weren’t fees, no, but man were there requirements—a whole laundry list of them, really, which she’d worked on meticulously checking off for the better part of a year now. Referral from a member, check. Health exam, medical transcripts, check. Psychiatric evaluation, check. Consent forms, check. A horde of paperwork that amounted to ‘this shit is on you’… check.

Nervous hands flattened the front of her unruly skirt too many times as she slipped through the sleek hallways of the base, looking nothing if not already-guilty. Her heart started warming up into what was soon to be a pounding sprint. She forced herself to swallow.

_This is crazy. This is dumb. You might know people. People might know you! Turn around. Go back to safety. You don’t need this._

She shook her head at her own internal monologue, pressing on through the halls. Newly-shined black floors met ever-matte black walls, electronics blinking in different colors to signify things she didn’t know. Starkiller was impersonal and cold—literally—and she was just about done with it. Her last few partners had seemed to care little for her wants and needs; a quick few shoves into her preceded the inevitable hasty excuse and ‘uhhh, catch you again soon?’ of her lazy lovers. She didn’t even want that much, she thought, hurrying along the last passageway standing between her and her new life.

_Just to be tied down. Choked. Spit on. Well, only sometimes. We’ll see. Maybe. But, I mean—is that too much for a girl to ask?_

She stopped cold in front of an unassuming wall. The faint outline of a door revealed itself only to those who know where to look—and she did. She traced the lines with gentle fingers before sucking in a long, slow breath. She waited one, two, four seconds before tapping twice on a small button obfuscated by a pattern in the wall. It was decisive, she decided—a decisive tap. She seemed confident. _Right?_

The panel slid solidly aside before her panicked thoughts got a chance to tangle themselves further. A warm hand closed along her upper arm, tugged her into a narrower passageway, and slid the panel back into place swiftly.

“Follow me,” a male voice said, its speaker having already turned away from her to head down the entrance foyer. She said nothing, scurrying along nervously as if a baby duckling following its mother; she knew nothing better. The hallway opened into a larger receiving room, as dimly lit as the hallway but much less claustrophobic. A desk sat to her left, and the male voice crossed behind it and sat.

“So,” he started, rustling through some papers. Gruff, she noted. Hands worn, face tired. Security? “Just confirming that everything is in order before I admit you to the club.”

_Security._

“Mhm,” she murmured, non-confrontational, doing her best to sound as agreeable as possible to this man. Now was not the time to get tossed out—not when she’d worked up the bravery to come this close. “I understand.”

The man did nothing to return her small smile, instead rifling through the stacks of paperwork until he pulled out a folder with her name on it—her real name, not the alias she’d given to the club in her application. When he flipped it open and began to scan the contents, her own eyes flicked across the pages—pages!—they apparently already had on her. None of this was in the club application. Not even—

She squirmed slightly in her seat, eyes resting uncomfortably on several photos of her taken in locations across the base.

 _Goddamn,_ she breathed, _they even do surveillance._

The man glanced up then, same look of gruff-blankness on his face. “We keep our members safe. I’m sure you’re aware Club Starkiller prides itself on its cross-personnel membership. This includes, of course, high-ranking officers.”

She nodded quickly. “Of course.” She folded her hands, fingers locking together. “Of course. I understand.”

That answer must have satisfied him, as she was left to glance around the room as the minutes ticked by. Her eyes darted around the reception hall, catching on the smooth, dark wood of twin stairways leading to another level—to the sleek, tiled floors, all gray-scale and minimal. Nothing caught her eye; nothing betrayed that a BDSM club lay just beyond one of these doors. She pressed her lips into a line once more, steeled herself, and tried to take in deep, smooth breaths.

_This is fine, this is fine; there’s nothing to be afraid of here._

“Looks like everything is in order here.”

She jumped when his voice split the silence but managed to regain her composure a moment later. An audible sigh of relief—or maybe it was just the release of tension? —escaped her lips. She thought, for a moment, that the man smiled.

“You’ll need to pick a club name,” the man spoke again, pushing a host of new paperwork towards her. “No real names here. We have your real identities on the back-end, of course, but we try to separate work and play in the club atmosphere itself.”

She nodded, distracted by a long list of sample names laid out before her. She settled on a simple one, nestled between two significantly longer names halfway down the sheet: Rhea.

_Feminine. Not too distinct; unpretentious._

She placed a small check mark by it in her half-scrawling-half-slanted script.

“And here,” the man spoke again, this time drawing her attention to another long list. “You’ve indicated your comfort levels with these items on the application, but we like to have new members re-confirm their tastes and preferences, and any hard limits. Nothing binding, of course —” he added, as if tipped off to her discomfort, “Just helps our dungeon monitors get a baseline sense of you in case they need to step in or give guidance.”

“Mhm hm,” she murmured noncommittally, checking the items she knew she had on the application.

_Comfortable with vaginal penetration [X]_

_Comfortable with oral sex [X]_

_Comfortable with being spanked [by hand] [X]_

She checked off a few other items, leaving small question marks where she didn’t quite know how to respond, then reviewed the list for hard limits.

_Will not perform acts involving:_

_Fire [X]_

_Needles [X]_

_Blood [X]_

She thought for a minute longer, wrote down _‘bodily fluids not normally secreted during sexual activity’_ , cringed at her own awkward phrasing, and handed the sheets back to the guard. _Or secretary. Or whoever this man is._

“Right, that’s it then,” he said, producing two colored ribbons. “This pink one indicates it’s your first time at the club. The purple one indicates your status as a Submissive.”

Her cheeks flushed with color before he finished the sentence.

_A submissive. Fuck. This is happening._

He wrapped both around the same wrist; she wasn’t sure how his large fingers managed, but he tugged them both into small, pretty bows at the end.

“The Masters like it.”

 _Masters._ Holy _fuck._

“There you are,” he said, guiding her mostly-distracted body to a door across the threshold, set deeply into a thick wall. “Here you are, Club Starkiller. Ask your dungeon masters for assistance should you need it. Be good."

_Be good._

The worlds reverberated in an addled brain.


	2. Understood

She blinked a few times. Deep, glossy, grain wood lined the floors, similar panels climbing up the walls. Well-kept plants stood in the corners of the expansive room, small side tables accompanying each one. She squinted for a better look; on each, stacks of condoms, a small marble statue, and several small baskets.

Someone has good taste. _Rich_ taste.

Her eyes darted lower to the small trash cans beneath.

‘BIOHAZARD’.

She suppressed a gulp and scanned the rest of the room. Two seating areas lined the walls to her right and left, each containing several low-back armchairs, a loveseat, and a leather couch. The kind that was easy to wipe down. Goosebumps raised on her skin, a quick flare of heat pooling in her lower half. Velvet ropes rested to the side of one of the areas, where several people already sat talking. It seemed like an intimate group and— _oh_ —a man knelt at the feet of one of the men, whose fingers were combing lazily through his sub’s hair.

The other seating area had its own velvet ropes, this time stretched to block off the area. ‘Reserved.’

The wall opposite to her opened in the middle to a short hallway and, straight ahead, another room. A room with _equipment_.

She swallowed hard, shoved the feeling of anxiousness down, and dragged her eyes back to her immediate surroundings.

A circular bar sat in the center of the room, its bartender cleaning glassware with his back turned to her. She blinked rapidly again, rubbed her arms idly, and took a few steps forward.

_Drinks._

_Alcohol._

It seemed like a good place to start.

Just then, as though the man detected her presence—detected she wasn’t brave enough without some imbibing—the bartender turned around. Short, clipped dark hair rested on the top of his head and made its way down via slight stubble to an angular jaw. A slightly-loose-but-mostly-not gray t-shirt clung to the muscles of his chest, short sleeves exposing lightly tanned biceps. Her eyes caught the glint of the golden band circling one of them and dropped to his wrist. A dark wristband—a Dom’s wristband—rested there.

 _Shit_.

She remembered reading about the golden armbands. They signified a Starkiller Master—a Dom or Domme who brought triple scoop, hot fudge, Mocha Frappuccino, cherry-on-top kind of domination. They signified the _powerful_ ones. Masters served as the dungeon masters in rotations, trained up new members, and were the only ones allowed to punish any sub for disobedience.

 _Fuck. Shit. Bye_ —

The man lifted an arm and curled one finger, commanding her forward. Her heart fluttered dangerously in her chest, mouth running dry. Then she looked up—up into green eyes that held a shocking warmth. His lips curled up in a small smile of amusement.

_I can do this._

She took a shaky few steps towards him while he, for his part, pushed open the half-door on the side and walked around the bar to stand in front of her. Rippling muscles went slack a moment later as he leaned casually against the bar top.

“C’mere little sub,” he purred almost playfully. His seductive tone caused a little pang in her chest; her heart skipped a beat and pounded once, hard.

It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest. This was okay; she was okay. Not in trouble.

She took the last few steps forward, closing the gap. The man smiled—a nice, warm, approving smile.

“That’s a good girl. So brave to have made it all the way to the Club.” He looked down towards her feet with a tiny frown. “But Antonio didn’t take your shoes?”

She blinked. “I—sorry—Antonio?”

“Our security,” he clarified a moment later, looking at her thoughtfully. It felt like his eyes could see right through her—see everything. She stumbled a little when she spoke.

“Um. No, he didn’t.”

“Give them to me,” he said, no room in the command for anything less than instant obedience. “We don’t allow subbies to wear shoes in here.”

 _Damn_. _Doesn't waste time, did he?_

She reached down and plucked both of her flats off quickly. This was not the time to argue. “Well,” he corrected himself, “Stilettos or nothing. And those are _not_ stilettos.”

She blushed, glancing at her cream-colored flats. Distinctly not stilettos. Nowhere sexy enough, she thought, chewing on her inner cheek self-consciously.

He held a single rough hand out, she gave them up, and all seemed forgiven.

“There you go.” He stroked the side of her face with his other thumb, the skin on the pad of his finger alarmingly soft. The self-conscious thoughts that had made her panic only a moment ago seemed to evaporate. “Sit down,” he ordered, gesturing to one of the bar stools and went to re- enter the bartending area, placing her shoes on a low shelf. “You can have these back at the end of the night. And in the future, I expect you’ll leave them with Antonio.”

_Expect._

A tiny flare of annoyance coiled in her belly—along with something else. A little bit of heat, a little excitement.

She nodded.

The man raised an eyebrow.

“I’d like a verbal answer, please.”

“Um… okay.”

He stared at her for a long moment before erupting in warm, rich laughter.

“You’re new, so I’ll chalk this up to ‘cute’. But here at the Club, we’ll be expecting a ‘Yes, Sir’ from you. Or a ‘Yes, Master’ when you have one, or ‘Yes, Master _Name_ ’”—he gestured to indicate a replacement— “or Mistress, depending. Anything else will get you into trouble.”

Her lips formed into a soft _o_.

He raised another eyebrow expectantly.

“Oh. Um. Yes, Sir,” she stuttered awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He smiled anyway.

“Now doesn’t that sound nice.” His warm, approving tone wrapped around her like a blanket of approval. The corners of the man’s eyes crinkled. “I’m Master Cullen, and you are...?”

“Rhea,” she said, trying to make the name sound right on her tongue, “I’m Rhea.”

“Well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Rhea. Now what can I do you for?”

She blinked. There were honestly _many_ things he could do her for—

“Vodka tonic,” she said quickly. “Please. Uh. Sir.”

He nodded and turned to make the drink. She took the opportunity to hide her face with her hands. God, she sounded dumb.

“Here you go,” he said softly a moment later, causing her to jump. _Fuck, that was fast_. There was a little bit of sympathy in his glance. “Drinks are free, but we limit everyone to two a night. Not for cost, for safety. But I trust you already know that.”

She nodded.

He blinked once, tensing his jaw, looking very much like he expected something.

“Oh,” she finished, sucking down her first sip quickly. “Uh, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He smirked. “You really are cute.”

“I—” she smiled, glancing down into her drink like her eyelashes would hide the sparkle forming in her eyes. “Thanks.”

“Mhm hm,” he said, starting to wipe down the bar top.

“If I can ask… Sir,” she started hesitantly, “how exactly are drinks free without a membership fee? How did the Club even get this space?”

He paused and hummed in consideration. “Mhm, well,” he started, leaning into her, apparently deciding her personal space was his, too. “You see, the Club caters to a lot of… higher-ups. Founded by them, even. I mean, that’s

Hux right over there.” He nodded to the sitting area to her left.

She jumped, fighting with her drink to swallow the right way. Scanning the group quickly, she turned back to Master Cullen with a question on her face. “I don’t see him,” she whispered back.

He snorted softly. “On the floor.”

She glanced back—the group had still not noticed, thank god—and this time, really did choke on her drink. The sub kneeling on the ground, the one whose bright orange hair a larger, older man ran his hands through, was _Hux_.

“Oh god,” she sputtered, one of the bartender’s large hands clamping over her mouth while the other smacked her back until she swallowed the right way.

She stopped sputtering, caught her breath, and mumbled, “I feel like I’m learning things I never wanted to know.”

Master Cullen chuckled. “That’s part of it—of being here at the club. You do see familiar faces, for better or worse. The Stormtroopers are lucky, I think; they get to hide behind those helmets out on the base, so there’s no

recognizing them here. There’s lots of people here I swear I’ve never seen before in my life. I know the base is large… but I figure most are Troopers.”

She nodded and nursed her drink, still too shaken to speak. She was a student on the base, only a year out from graduating in the engineering system. Though Hux wasn’t involved in the day-to- days, her unit still technically

reported to him as part of ‘Military Strategic Command Engineering’. She knew enough about him to know he was an asshole, to avoid him at all costs, and – _oh, god_ , she really hoped she didn’t have to see him naked.

“I think you’ll learn lots of things here that you never wanted to know.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes; the bartender’s words held both threat and promise.

A man down the bar slapped the countertop. She jumped. “Cullen! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Master Cullen nodded once at her. “We,” he said—no, _told_ her— “will talk more about your needs later.” He smirked and made his way down the bar to talk to his friend.

A constant flow of people made their way into the club now that the regular members arrival block had opened. Breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth, she squirmed a bit in her chair.

 _Settle_.

The bartender had made her feel… small. Commanded. Desired. She cleared her throat and sipped more of her drink, a note of lime lingering on her tongue. It was exactly what she wanted, honestly. She’d always had a dominant personality in her school life. She excelled at engineering, excelled at math, excelled at getting what she wanted. She put herself in contention for every award there was, tried to network her way into the best opportunities in her program. But it all left her tired—she knew she wouldn’t stop moving through her mile-a-minute days unless she was tied up and _couldn’t_.

She wondered, too, what it would be like to have someone take care of her; to have someone keenly watching and meeting her needs without being given the opportunity to object to it. When Kylo Ren launched an assault on her home planet, she was almost relieved to join the First Order; no one at her orphanage had wanted her anyway. She understood no one within the Order _cared_ about her, either, but at least they _wanted_ her. They wanted her skills and expertise, and she could trade it for education, a decent place to sleep, and not-starving. Business was business.

But accept being cared for in her personal life? She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure she even possessed the capability. Maybe the area of the brain responsible for those feelings never even developed. Maybe—

“Hey, beautiful.” She heard the words whispered into her ear before she felt the hands around her waist. Hot breath met the cool skin of her neck. She shivered, whirring around too-fast in her chair.

A man, shorter and much less muscular than the bartender, had wandered over to her. She glanced pointedly at his wrist, then at his upper arms; a Dom’s wristband, but no golden band. A swell of relief mingled with one of mild disappointment.

“Oh,” she started, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” the stranger spoke, smiling down at her.

He was, honestly, not very her type. His blond hair fell a little lower than Master Cullen’s, framing red ears—it appeared she wasn’t the only nervous one. He had no standout features, neither ugly nor beautiful. A normal nose, light blue eyes, thin lips. It made her relax a little despite the lack of attraction; where the bartender seemed unattainable, this man was average. Approachable.

 _We’re in_ _the_ _same league_. She forced a small smile. “Want to play?” he asked. Oh. No preamble at all. “Oh. Um—”

“I think you’d look mighty fine over a spanking bench. Or my knee.”

She felt her eyes go wide and her cheeks redden—not so much at him, but the mere thought. “I, um. Sure—”

“Great,” he replied. She slipped off the barstool, took it gingerly, and let him lead her into the main play room across from the bar. She noticed, idly, that he hadn’t insisted on a ‘Sir’ – nor had he reached for her hand, grasped her arm, or anything else. Her lips twitched; _maybe he’s new, too?_

She should’ve felt relieved. She didn’t. Instead, she felt a slight pang of disappointment.

The world that Master Cullen seemed able to pause with a simple look came roaring back to life, the voices of the other patrons washing over her in an overwhelming wave. A woman screamed somewhere in the distance; moans seemed to radiate from all around her. The club no longer suggested sex: it demanded it.

Just then, he stopped in front of a bench. She caught herself short of smacking into him, digging

her heels into the ground. Patent leather cushions laid out space for her arms, legs, belly. Straps jutted out of the wood paneling on the sides—straps that would tie her down however this man wanted. She swallowed.

“Be my guest,” he said softly, gesturing to the bench.

She took a step forward, eyebrows knitting together when he could no longer see her face. Was this how this was supposed to go?

She made a small humming noise of hesitation and climbed awkwardly over the bench, resting her legs on two of the cushions and bending slightly.

“Um, like this?”

“Sure,” he replied noncommittally. Not in control.

_Sure. Sure?!_

She huffed a little, annoyed. She didn’t know much about this lifestyle, but she knew _enough_. “Am I topping, or are you?”

She hadn’t thought anyone had been listening, but she heard a few bystanders suck in what seemed like a collective breath of air.

“You know,” the blonde Dom started, strapping one leg in, “I was going to spank that ass for pleasure. But now I think it might have to be for punishment.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes. “At least you’d be doing something.”

Someone to her right chuckled. The Dom on her left did not. The restraint tying her right leg down clicked into place. He knelt, grasped both wrists, and tugged them down. They, too, were restrained in record time.

She glared at him, nostrils flaring, until she felt a hand flip the back of her dress out. Squirming hard in the restraints, the same hand fought for dominance as it grasped at the top of her thong and pulled it down in one motion.

She froze. This time, real fear crept into her, icing over her chest, constricting her throat. For someone so bored with vanilla sex, she felt surprisingly bare. Exposed. She wanted to hike up her panties and run. She’d nearly forgotten there were real stakes—this was fantasy no longer. She was about to get spanked.

She took a deep breath.

_I know my safe word. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine._

She’d gotten herself into this situation; she’d ride it out, too.

“Hopefully I can teach you some obedience,” an only-slightly-familiar voice spoke from behind her.

 _Unlikely,_ a small voice in her head supplied.

The first whack of his hand—smaller and less hard than she’d expected—came without warning. She expected him to say something, expected there to be a reaction, but nothing came.

“Is that it?” she asked, knowing full well those were fighting words.

“Fuck you,” the Dom snarled, smacking her cheeks harder in rapid succession. “What do you say now, sub, huh?”

“I say I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“You little—”

“What the fuck are you doing, Dalton?”

Black, shiny boots had appeared under her. She jerked, straining her neck to find the speaker above. The voice was new and totally unfamiliar—a deep, lazy, staccato timber that rubbed at her insides.

The blonde Dom—Dalton, she guessed—started to speak. “She’s being—”

“She’s a fucking brat, I know.” Something hard caught in her throat, wind knocked out of her. “Worse, you’re not even teaching her better. She’s barely reacting to you. How do you fuck up a simple spanking that badly?”

“Fuck you, Ben.”

She craned harder than ever to see the face of the new man. Dark denim lined long, powerful legs—legs that seemed to stretch on forever, her aching neck noted. A deep green sweater rested on his hips, sleeves rolled carelessly up to his forearms. Corded forearms.

“She doesn’t even have her membership bracelet, Dalton. You know better.”

“She—”

“Shut up and fuck off somewhere else,” the man named Ben spat.

She heard an audible huff before the retreating footsteps that followed.

A moment later, large fingers came into view, expertly working to release her hands. His footfall was heavy as the DM walked around to unsecure her legs, boots crunching under his step. The same large, thick hands wrapped around her upper arms a moment later, tugging her to her feet and flipping her around to face him like she had no right to bodily autonomy at all.

Dark hair framed the most angular face she’d ever seen, falling nearly to his shoulders in perfectly coiffed waves. A thin, white scar slashed across his face, ending just to the right of one eyebrow. Her own rose and fell quicker than she could blink as she surveyed him. All hard angles, a protruding Adam’s apple, lean muscle evident in the puff of his chest and breadth in his shoulders. Power and arrogance radiated from the man. There was something else—the features of his face seemed narrow and stark, as if he’d starved himself of nourishment. Only pillowy, pink lips emerged as the exception. Small birthmarked moles peppered his face, somehow managing only to add dimension to his beauty.

“Thanks,” she started, unsure of what to say, eager to make an impression, “That really—”

“ _Be quiet._ ”

Though soft, his deadly tone left no room for anything other than instant compliance. She closed her mouth mid-sentence, anxiety starting to burn in her belly.

He circled her slowly; she could’ve sworn his gaze burned a laser trail into her skin wherever it went.

“Aren’t dungeon monitors supposed to wear the golden band? Isn’t wearing it beneath a sweater kind of cheating?”

He stopped abruptly, stepped in front of her with another crunch of hits boots, and fisted a hand in her hair. 

A pathetic, involuntary whimper escaped her lips as her stomach dropped into her ass, panties still clinging to her thighs.

“If you were my sub—fortunately, you’re not—I'd spank your ass into submission right here and now.”

She dared not swallow, lips parted for shallow breath. He tugged on her hair harder.

“You will come to the Club dressed properly: like the little slut you are. And you will respect your superiors. Understand?”

Her mind went totally, inexplicably blank. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” she felt herself saying, possibly the fastest agreement in her life.

The man stared at her a second longer, the anger in his eyes slowly receding. He straightened up, released his hold in her hair, and cast her a look as if she was a naughty puppy who’d peed on his floor.

“You might also consider not going with the very first Dom to approach you.”

With that last admonishment, he stalked off, apparently entirely unaffected.

She blinked her eyes clear. She waited for breath to return to her lungs. She waited for some feeling of sobriety to return.

Most of all, she ignored the wave of lubrication that threatened to roll down her thighs.

_Fuck that man and every single one of his perfect fucking moles._


	3. Soon Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroine returns to her day job--interning for high command. Determined not to bend to anyone else's rules, she rushes to fulfill one of Kylo Ren's last minute, hellfire-threatening demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OLD COMMENT:  
> Obviously this fic diverges from canon quite a lot. Hopefully you won't mind.
> 
> This chapter is a little short, and perhaps a little boring, but I promise the details are relevant to whatever plot I manage to wring out of this smut-monster. And maybe you'll pick up some of the computer science references along the way.
> 
> P.S. Ayse is typically said "Isha" like eye-sha.
> 
> NEW COMMENT:  
> Like it would ever be this easy, LOL

“Get your leg down from there,” he hissed.

“Get a new intern.”

Ayse Holdeag smirked at Captain Edrison Peavey who had, by now, placed his hands on his hips in indignation. He tried to play right and proper, but she knew he was secretly fond of her—or, at least, let her get away with shit, which was close enough as far as she was concerned.

“Every student would kill for your place.”

“And yet,” she yawned, kicking her feet up onto the terminal’s surface, “here I am.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“So,” she continued without pause, “you want this shit or not?”

He straightened up, apparently resigned to ignore what he would call ‘behavior unbecoming of a potential engineer of the High Command’.

“Yes, yes, of course I do. Here—”

The man reached for the computer terminal in front of her, gingerly stretching an arm over her outstretched leg. She made no effort to move, clicking gum between her teeth casually. The terminal glowed to life with the swipe of his bio-credentials, sleek as ever. Nestled in the dugout of Starkiller Base’s main bridge, she was convinced the design was to ensure the technicians and engineers on duty looked _and_ felt inferior to the officers who paced above them.

The Captain pointed towards the screen, a small console showing an unfamiliar network address.

“This is a Resistance network our scanners found.”

“They left the port open,” she breathed, sitting forward suddenly.

“Mhm,” he nodded importantly, though she knew he had no idea what this meant. “That can’t be the only vulnerability.”

She took hold of the tracking pad, isolating a small input field on the site.

> ./n98/magerun2/bin/n98-magerun2 sys:cron:run sitemap_generate
> 
> >>>>
> 
> Sitemap:
> 
> Date Time Shipments Weather

She snorted, hot breath of disbelief escaping her nose. “This is some dumb shit.” They'd left an access port open and hadn't even made their data table names private. Worse still, the Resistance site took user input—she could enter malicious code instead of the desired user ID, giving her an easy opportunity to input commands that would delete data from their systems without even needing permissions.

She clicked the field once.

> User_id:
> 
> 1 OR 1=1; DROP TABLE Shipment_data

She pressed enter, a small green flash indicated successful input, and she let out a small chuckle of bemusement. Honestly, with engineering this bad, they deserved it.

“Their shipment data will be deleted the next time their system cycles.”

Peavey stared at her, a quiet moment—maybe his own lack of willingness to believe a vulnerability this amateur—lingering in the air.

“Next,” she offered lazily, reaching for the snack she’d stolen from the officers’ table above. The shuura looked good, a perfect, shiny yellow indicating prime ripeness. Her stomach rumbled in response.

She raised an eyebrow at the man who still lingered to her left.

“Well, then,” he mumbled, smoothing down the front of his officers’ jacket importantly, “That’s all. Except—” he caught her mid-bite in the shuura, leaning down a bit to her level and lowering his voice. “Ayse, _high command_ is likely to turn up tonight. All of them. I know he’ll want that data report—”

“Fuck.” She labored to chew through the fibers of the fruit, swallowing the mouthful in a hurry. “Yup, right. I’ll have it.”

He nodded and left her to it.

Honestly, she’d forgotten— _and, I mean, how dare I? Kylo-fucking-Ren wants something, so everybody must drop everything in their lives, every bit of work, and get it. Obviously._

The last time she’d seen the Supreme Leader, he’d stormed into the bridge, screamed at everyone on staff, destroyed half the terminals, and demanded they all go on some wild goose chase in the archives of the Empire for a map. He had apparently managed to convince himself that the Order could deduce where Luke Skywalker went into hiding. Since practically every other engineer on staff was only there because Hux played favorites—and since the few vaguely-qualified ones were no good with databases—the task had been left to the intern. Her. _Great._

She had promised herself she would finish this by last Friday. She, of course, hadn’t.

> tig checkout empire-archives
> 
> tig pull tig ls -a
> 
> >>>>
> 
> This directory contains {309245629} items.

“Fuck”.

Holy _fuck, more like._

She glanced at the small green time-clock in the corner of the computer terminal. 19:36. High command meetings had been over for hours; any of them—Hux, Phasma, Ren—could show up at any minute, and there were _way_ too many folders to search.

She sat up straight for what felt like the first time in her life and scrambled around on her work station area for the papers Peavey had left with the little details they had to work from. “It’s here somewhere,” she breathed, trying to keep calm under the mounting pressure in her chest, the lightning strike of anxiety burning up from her belly.

“Fuck,” she hissed impatiently, grasping at the light blue memo paper that had evaded her. Turning it over in her hands, she scanned for a critical detail—a search term. Anything.

‘…coordinates of the first Jedi Temple…’

_There._

She bit down on her lip, desperately wracking her brain for details from a class she’d probably slept through.

“Password spray, password spray,” she whispered to no one but herself, “the same concept has to apply to search terms, too. If you search enough terms, you’re guaranteed your result. The only free variable is—” her eyes flicked back to the clock— “time.”

For all she knew, she had next to none. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

> tig ls explorer .
> 
> “Jedi”
> 
> >>>>
> 
> {204958} references. “Temple”
> 
> >>>>
> 
> {29456} references. “Jedi” AND “Temple”
> 
> >>>>
> 
> {20143} references.
> 
> “First” AND “Jedi” AND “Temple”
> 
> >>>>
> 
> {2194} references.

She slapped the cold, unyielding metal surface in front of her. An order of magnitude’s improvement, sure, but still way too many files.

_Okay. Breathe. What about file types?_

Would the Archive have used .mpp map files? Were they even around then? She sucked in cool air and held the breath.

> “First” AND “Jedi” AND “Temple” AND is: Type.Mpp
> 
> >>>>
> 
> {15 results}

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” she yelled out a little louder than she’d meant to. Several officers on the bridge above paused, tossed her looks of disgust, and gestured between her and Captain Peavey expectantly.

He only pinched the bridge of his nose again.

“Okay,” she muttered, bracing herself to dig into the data, "here we go."

The young woman yawned and rubbed her eyes. The panic of racing against the clock had faded; she’d spent the last hour combing through the Archive’s map files, and still nothing. Some of them had been misnamed, misclassified; others mentioned the First Jedi Temple only by name in the metadata—no relevant coordinates to be found.

Only one file remained.

She drummed her fingers on the sleek black metal of her workstation.

 _Please_ , she begged in silent prayer, _let this be it_.

She closed her eyes and tapped twice on the file location.

It sprang to life before her, dimensions glittering in the light. Her eyes had barely scanned once over when she realized she had it: this was it. A star system stretched out before her, constellations written across the screen with the beauty only the stars could capture. Fingers shaking, she reached for the touchpad to verify each region was intact.

She clicked on each star system, coordinates obediently populating on the screen with each touch—until they didn’t.

When she tapped on the center region, only an error message sprang forth.

Content Corruption.

“No,” she whispered quietly, “no, no, no.”

The map wasn’t complete—a major fucking problem considering it was relational in nature: the constellations were simply clues. Regions that appeared right next to each other on the screen stretched many light-years apart. Altogether, they had to spell out some message, hold some secret meaning. Without every piece, there was no way to track down Skywalker.

“God,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.

_Think. Think._

She snapped her fingers suddenly.

 _Corrupted? Corrupted by_ whom _?_

She would have celebrated her new lead if the bridge blaster door hadn’t slid aside just them. Ominous, heavy footfall followed somewhere above and behind her—footsteps that were rapidly making their way down the bridge center strip.

She heard Peavey’s professionally-iced voice first. “General Hux.”

“Captain,” Hux replied cooly. “Supreme Leader.”

No acknowledgment of her boss came—but none was needed. Her heart had already started hammering in her chest. She didn’t need to look up to know that Kylo Ren stood somewhere above her, waiting and expectant.

“I trust you’ve acquired the intelligence?” came the mechanical voice at last.

Her fingers launched into action, shaking too badly to properly right click on the file signature. When she managed, she practically pounded the last needed command into the terminal.

> mpp --Properties

“Of course,” Peavey replied with that same cool professionalism. “Ayse? Present your findings.”

She heard little more over the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest. She just needed a few more parsecs. Just a _few_ —

> >>>>
> 
> Last modified: 294-194-1 Last modified by: d. meeko Last operation: splice
> 
> —!

She breathed a very, very audible sigh of relief and leapt up from her chair.

She took a step towards the stairs to the bridge floor, keenly aware of the eyes that had fallen on her: the icy, all-business glare of Hux. The impassive stare of a silent Phasma. And something else—a heavier set of eyes, crushing her windpipe, forcing the air out of her lungs. They burned as she made her way up the stairs, feeling ever more like she was walking to her death. The incomplete map was less than ideal; she needed to sell the shit out of all the good news and gloss over the bad. Stat.

She straightened, stood tall, and puffed out her chest a bit; there was nothing a little power posing couldn’t do.

“Yes, ah, sir,” the girl nodded to Captain Peavey, doing her best not to feel so damn threatened by the height of the Triumvirate. She could be just as tall, maybe, if she balanced on the very ends of her tippy toes—

“I successfully located a map in the Archives of the Empire. It relates major constellations in a way I believe, when complete, will hold the key to Skywalker’s location. A puzzle of sorts. I’m confident I can solve—”

A cool, static voice laden with sarcasm cut her off.

“’ _When_ _complete_ ’,” he—Ren—repeated softly.

Her stomach twisted in on itself.

“Yes, Sir,” she responded, somehow managing to sound at least half-brave. “Before the collapse of the Empire, it appears someone corrupted the file. They spliced it in two—the part we have, which is thankfully the vast majority of the puzzle—and a smaller piece. I was also able to isolate the culprit. The user responsible for this last modification to the file was a ‘D. Meeko’.”

A long, tense moment of silence passed.

“I see.”

Words that were normally garbled by a vocoder emerged crystal clear—crystal clear and full of contempt, so much so that she could feel the tiny hairs on her skin stand up. She shoved down the temptation to shiver, resisting every urge in her muscles to simply _run_.

Silence fell heavy again. Captain Peavey shuffled in his place, seemingly unsure of what to do with a displeased Kylo Ren on his hands. Hux looked between the girl, and Ren, and back.

Phasma stared at the far wall, apparently disinterested in it all.

She opened her mouth—maybe against her better judgement—determined to resist what she could only perceive as an intimidation tactic.

“Do you have questions I can answer, Sir?” She forced her best fake smile, folding her hands in faux thoughtfulness.

The person— _thing?_ —behind the mask made a noise so low it sounded directly from the depths of his throat.

“ _You_ ,” the static voice crackled from behind his helmet. Though warped to hell and pitched lower, the words held a tone that held the slightest suggestion of familiarity. Her eyes darted to the place his would’ve been in alarm. Had he noticed her before on one of her shifts? Fuck—what if she’d been goofing off as usual in that instance?—or napping?—

When he spoke again, the tone had disappeared entirely. She convinced herself she imagined it.

“You think highly of yourself?”

She said only what sprang to mind first. “Don’t you?”


	4. Soon Enough

As it turns out, Kylo Ren does _not_ think highly of her. She knows this because of the way he hurled his fist through a command console and peppered choice threats throughout a long rant.

But she can’t think about that now. _No,_ she thinks, smoothing down the front of her outfit, staring intently at herself in the mirror— _Kylo_ _Ren is the least of my concerns._

She has Master Ben to worry about.

The roots of her hair ache where he’d fisted his hand.

_‘You will come to the Club dressed like the little slut you are.’_

She shivers and scolds herself quietly not a moment later. _Don’t let him get to you_.

As she sees it, there are two problems with this order: first, frankly, she doesn’t particularly feel like obeying. Why should he get to dictate what she wears? He’s not her Dom—he’s never even done a scene with her or learned about her in any meaningful way—and she’s already headstrong and stubborn to begin with. Second, she’s honestly not sure what she’s _supposed_ to wear. It’s not like she owns fetish gear. She has only a few articles of skimpy clothing—her studies leave little extra time—and where she does, they’re maximized for her confidence. They’re tight, they’re dark, and they project power.

She imagines the only thing worse than disobeying his order is showing up dressed like a Domme.

Instead, she chooses the only slip she owns. The tube of soft, silky fabric starts just above her breasts and ends just below the curve of her ass, tickling the back of her thighs. Painted in muted pinks and blues like a diminutive watercolor, she thinks it looks like a reasonable attempt. It’s undeniably less pedestrian than the everyday dress she’d worn last time. He can’t fault her for this, right? There was _some_ effort.

She shoves thoughts of punishment out of her head, utters a quiet prayer that perhaps she won’t run into the Dom at all, and throws on a long overcoat.

* * *

She sits quietly at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic. She’s left her shoes and cover with the guard. She shivers.

Master Cullen looks at her pointedly.

“So,” he continues softly, “your paperwork is here. Should a Dom ask to scene with you, he should come get your papers from me and clip them to any equipment being used—or, nearby, if there isn’t a station in use. This helps our dungeon monitors verify your limits in case anything goes wrong or either of you have questions. Does this make sense?”

She nodded once mid-sip.

“Verbally.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now,” he murmurs, opening a drawer from behind the bar. “Now that it’s no longer your first night, you get a member’s wristband. Hold out your left hand, please.”

She complies quickly enough—it wasn’t _that_ scary. Just a bracelet. She takes a deep breath.

He looks good tonight, but she imagines he always looks good. His large shoulders flex under a deep grey t-shirt as he turns his back to choose items from another drawer. He looks meticulous, focused. She wonders how focused he would look if—

“So,” he starts, interrupting her thoughts. “We’re going to have a conversation about your needs.”

She blinks once, twice. “Okay,” she replies a little dumbly, unsure what to say. “Er, yes Sir.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. He smiles. “Have you ever been topped before?” She pauses.

“I—informally. Not properly. A boyfriend tried it once. He wasn’t very good—I mean, I wasn’t either—” she stops, wrinkling her nose. “I didn’t enjoy it then. But I think I could. Know I do.”

He nods, surprisingly gentle for such a large man. She relaxes a little on the barstool, fingers brushing the side of her glass absentmindedly.

“What did you try?”

“Spanking, a few times. He tried to choke me but didn’t do it right.”

“Cut off air instead of blood?”

She nods. He rolls his eyes at the thought and makes a small _tsk_ ing noise. “Poor little subbie.”

When he returns her smile, she volunteers more. “I think he thought domination was just being _mean_. **”**

Master Cullen frowned, his chin placed firmly in his hands now, watching her. “Mhm. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t, like, abused; I told him to fuck off. It just wasn’t satisfying.”

“Doesn’t sound it,” he affirms, gentle voice coaxing more from her. “Is that the depth and breadth of your experience?”

She shuffles in her chair, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious and very, _very_ amateur.

“I had a partner once—just a sex partner, I mean. We tried… well, um, I mean, not many _acts_. He didn’t hang me upside down or anything. But he told me what to do all weekend—er, in bed I mean—and I liked it. Really liked it. It felt good.”

Cullen takes a long sip from his own drink, thinking hard. “Did you feel protected?”

“Yes, Sir,” the little sub answers quietly.

“Valued?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All while calling you a filthy whore and fucking you hard?”

Her big, brown eyes go wide with surprise. His monitors them for any signs of distress or fear. None come. Instead, something else sparkles in her rapidly-dilating pupils. She seems to be caught off-guard by a shiver, the skin on her arms raising into small goosebumps.

“Yes or no, Rhea?” he prompts.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you ever feel like he made your mind go quiet? Or like you were floating?”

“Yes, Sir. A few times.”

He smiles. He thinks she’s lovely like this. “What happened, then?”

“Our… communication needed work. There was an emotional connection. I think. But we didn’t always seem to be on the same page in general. We were going to talk about it, see if it could develop into a relationship, but he had already enlisted. He was sent off to a dreadnought last year.”

“Which one?”

She furrows her brow.

“ _Fulminatrix_.”

The man nods knowingly.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. It was _fine_. It never would have worked out anyways. He was a technician, she was an engineer. They were never going to be together. It was _fine_.

She finishes the rest of her drink.

“Now,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb across the top of her wrist, “let’s talk about your interests.”

She swallows hard. “What about them?”

“Don’t be shy, I know you aren’t,” he growls in a low, seductive tone. “You’re a dirty little girl about to tell me just how dirty she really is.”

Her heart skips a beat and makes up for it with the next one. She feels her cheeks _burning_ and closes her eyes to grasp at the last straws of dignity.

“You can start,” he prompts, “with your fantasies.”

She thinks for a moment, mouth pressing into a thin line. She doesn’t want to disappoint him, but she’s afraid she isn’t that exciting. “I don’t—I don’t think I have, like, full scenarios that I really want…”

She trails off. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Specific things, then?”

She nods nervously. He raises an eyebrow with a slight threatening edge—something she rarely sees from him.

“Yes, Sir,” she corrects herself quickly.

“Go on,” he crosses his arms, leaning back onto his heels. “I know you know what you want. I can _see_ it.”

“I—” she opens her mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again and hesitates.

“There’s nothing I haven’t heard. Here: _‘Master Cullen, I want to be…’_ ”

Her cheeks light on fire and burn the First Order to the ground. Well, not really, but she _feels_ like they might. “Master Cullen,” she repeats, slowly at first, “I want to be…”

The man waits, eyes trained on her. She relishes in the way his attention is all hers.

“…choked,” she supplies, blushing again after a moment as if it’s too amateur of an answer. He nods and smiles. An acceptable start.

“I want,” she sucks in a brave breath, “to deepthroat. To be _forced_ to deepthroat.”

An expression creeps across his face, masculine features making her rub her thighs together as his dark eyes glitter with interest.

“I want to be tied down. And gagged. And, uh, blindfolded,” she adds, like that’s somehow the most indecent thing she’s said.

“Go on.”

He looks pleased with her. He doesn’t look disgusted. She breathes in, and out.

“I want to try… I mean, I’ve been spanked and paddled. I—” she forces down an ‘um’, trying to appear confident and unashamed— “want it harder. I want to try canes. I want to be flogged. I especially want to be flogged,” she confesses, voice barely a whisper by the end.

“Say that to me again, louder. ‘Master Cullen…’” She meets his eyes.

“Master Cullen, I want to be flogged,” she says with a steady voice.

He grins. It’s a wide, warm, fond grin. He slips a hand up to rub along the side of her jaw. She can feel herself relaxing.

“Tell me more.”

She knows it’s a command, not a request; it doesn’t bother her anymore.

“I might want to try whips. I don’t know. I don’t think I get off on pain itself, so I’m… I’m scared. I like it in combination with other things.”

She looks at him nervously; he nods. He makes her feel heard.

“I don’t want to do a lot of these things with just anyone.” When she sucks in a breath, her lungs rattle. She realizes she’s trembling. “Please don’t make me scene with anyone who asks—”

“Shh, shh. I won’t. No one will.” He pets her gently, the arousal written on his face temporarily replaced with a deep look of protectiveness. “These things are intimate. A lot of the things you’ve said take a lot of trust to build up to. We all know and understand that.”

She nods as his hands glide down her arms in reassurance. She shudders once, takes a breath, and tries to pull herself together. “Yes, Sir.”

He plants a light kiss on her forehead and ruffles her hair. “Good girl. Let me get you some water.”

He’s telling, not asking, she realizes when he turns and starts pouring out a glass. She squirms a bit on the stool, taking the moment to readjust herself.

 _Pull yourself together. You_ melted _for him. You can’t just roll over like that. You need to—_

“I thought I told you to dress like a little slut.”

Hot breath makes contact with her right ear. She jumps. A low, deep voice wrapped in mirth speaks from behind her, making her freeze.

Large hands grab the barstool beneath her and swivel her around. She refuses to look. She knows who it is; she knew the minute she smelled myrrh, simultaneously comforting and somber packed together. One of the same large hands wraps itself around her upper neck, surprisingly warm fingers spreading out across her jaw. He forces her to look at him.

“I don’t remember asking for pretty.”

_That…_

She blinks. It sounds like a backhanded compliment if she’s ever heard one. She doesn’t even remotely know how to feel; she practically sighs in relief when Master Cullen interrupts.

“Ah, Ben,” he starts, setting down the glass with a crisp _clang_ onto the bar-top. The taller dom glances up at him when he hears his name.

_Thank god. I’m saved._

“Rhea was just telling me how much she loves to choke on cock.”

Her jaw drops open. Master Ben’s lips curl into an amused smirk. His eyes pack an absurd amount of heat when he turns to her, both eyebrows raised to his forehead.

It takes everything she has not to whip around and curse Cullen out; disrespecting two of the biggest Doms in the club at once seems like a death wish. She’s sure the taller of the two would love an excuse to punish her.

Another _excuse, that is…_

He must have seen the thought flash in her eyes. “Well, Cullen, isn’t that good to know. Unfortunately, she’s ignored a command I gave her last weekend.”

 _It’s_ not _good to know. You will never, ever find out what your cock feels like in my throat. You_ won’t—

“Stand,” Master Ben commands. His longer hair is less coiffed today, falling in looser waves down to his chin. Faint stubble lies there, just as it does on his upper lip. Dark brown eyes—so dark she imagines they must be mistaken for black sometimes—search her face, presumably for signs of disobedience as she slips off the chair.

“Are you wearing anything beneath that?” She tries not to openly scowl.

“No.”

“No, _Sir_.”

“You really don’t have to call me sir.”

It slips out before she can stop it.

_Fuck._

Somewhere behind her, she can hear Master Cullen barking his laughter. The Dom in front of her looks amused, too—dangerously so.

That self-righteous smirk grows. She wishes she could punch him.

“…because if you had been,” he continues smoothly, “you’ve lost that privilege now.” She stares at him. He _wouldn’t_.

“Strip.” He would.

She gapes; he crosses his arms over his chest and waits expectantly. Even beneath his navy jacket, she can see that his arms are toned and strong. He wears a black polo underneath, alongside similar dark, tailored pants, and black shoes—dressier, this time, though a bit scuffed—tied up neatly with black laces.

She notes, with a great deal of annoyance at herself, that his undershirt looks warm. “Now,” he prompts. “Don’t make me repeat myself, or I’ll make your punishment worse.”

Cullen had already placed a second glass onto the bar, shorter this time, no ice; the taller Dom reaches for it and takes a sip of the dark amber liquid, eyes still glued to her. Still managing to look obnoxiously perfect.

_Breathe. It’s fine. You can do this. You’re already showing a lot of skin. What’s a little more?_

She grasps the hem around her upper thighs, refusing to show any emotion, and pulls it up and over her head.

Mr. Perfect holds out his hand. “And the panties.”

 _I’m_ _glad there’s a scar slashing your face_ , she thinks bitterly, taking hold of the lacy band of her panties and pulling them down as if she’s unaffected by it all.

She wishes he would grab them out of her hands. He doesn’t. She places the slip and her panties into his open one instead.

“You can go like that the rest of the night,” he said matter-of-factly, fingers closing around the silky materials. He takes another long sip from his glass, eyes traveling down her body in a way that let her know he's completely unashamed.

This, combined with a sudden draft, makes her shiver. She raises her hands instinctively, moving to cross her arms—

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t use his hands to stop her. He even takes another casual sip from his glass, like he’s just waiting to see if she’ll listen.

Her lower lip pouts out when she frowns. She drops her hands, trying to ignore how his eyes are fixed to the apex of her thighs.

“Turn,” he commands, making a spinning motion with one finger.

_Great. I’m an object._

She holds her breath and turns her feet, slowly making a full rotation. She doesn’t move too quickly; some part of her knows he’ll make her repeat it if she does. When she comes full circle, her eyes are on the floor. She doesn’t look at him.

“Amazing how quickly you can knock the brat out of a sub, isn’t it?” he says to no one in particular, apparently reveling in his victory. She squeezes her jaw in place to stay quiet.

“She can have these back at the end of the night,” he finishes, handing the clothes to Cullen. “Now,” he continues, wrapping an arm around her waist. She squeaks inadvertently; she’d barely even seen him coming for her when she’d already been pressed up against his hip. “Aren’t these a nice surprise.”

Her eyes flick up to his, then follow his gaze downwards. _Oh. Right. Those._

Little barbells rest on either side of her nipples, held in place by the small bars piercing her.

Master Ben holds in her place with his left arm while his right-hand palms her stomach and travels up, up, up. The warm, tough skin on one of his hands cups a breast. She tenses and, to her horror, a soft mewl escapes her lips.

“Shh,” he murmurs, gentler than she’d expected, though the commanding undertone is still there, demanding obedience. “Stay quiet. These breasts are mine to touch.”

She presses her lips together, refusing to make a sound. She knows, even though he ordered her silence, that he _likes_ the reaction he got. She doesn’t, however, relax.

"Don’t worry. I can’t slip my fingers into that tight little pussy until you have a green ribbon.” Her eyes flare, then her nostrils. He smirks again. “Speaking of which, Cullen, where _are_ her ribbons?”

“Mhm,” the bartender answers, chewing on a piece of gum he’d just popped into his mouth, “was just about to explain that to her when you showed up. Now seems like a good time, bar's died down a bit.”

He turns to retrieve one of the trays he’d gotten out earlier, one filled with different colored ribbons. “Besides, Ben, I need to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I think she might belong in the training program,” he says, seriously.

The Dom stops kneading her breast, leaving his fingers in place where they are. His eyebrows make their way back up his forehead. “She has quite the attitude problem for a trainee.” Cullen makes a small noise of thought, placing the ribbon tray up on the bar-top, but provides no answer. The taller of the two speaks again. “Why do you say that?”

Master Cullen shoots her a look that tells her she’s to continue being silent before he turns back to the other Dom. “She’s been dominated before in the way you’d expect of casual members. I don’t think she’s here for kicks. She’s not the kind that rolls in to feel naughty and take some light spankings. Some of her tastes are more—” he pauses for a moment, “—up our alley.”

She forces herself to swallow, suddenly feeling very much like she isn’t included in this conversation at all. It feels so odd to be discussed like this—like she isn’t here at all. Like she has no say. Like two bigger, stronger people are going to make the choices for her.

Realizing that that’s _exactly_ what’s going to happen, she reaches for her water. She needs a drink.

“Is that so,” the long-haired Dom says softly, more statement than question. He’s thinking about something—she can tell by the way his fingers on one hand stroke absentmindedly at the curve of her waist.

“In particular,” Cullen continued, “you should know that she ‘really wants’ to be flogged.” Her cheeks burn. He glances across at her. “Master Ben here might be considered the king of the flogger.”

_Nope. No. No way._

She squirms in the Dom’s grasp and, unfortunately, doesn’t manage to get far. The hand on her waist grips her tightly while the one on her breast pinches her nipple. Hard.

_“Ow!”_

“Shush.”

He releases her breast and downs the rest of his drink before returning the hand to her body, fingertips wet and cold from the condensation now pressing against her neck. “Is it your instinct to run when you’re in a man’s grasp?”

She pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. It was a shockingly fair question. She didn’t want him to be fair. She wanted him to be rude and terrible and unlikeable, so she could write him off without a second thought.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to be flogged?”

“I don’t know.”

The man sighs—and pinches her nipple again. _Fuck!_

“The only thing I can’t stand more than a bratty sub is a dishonest sub.”

“Well,” Master Cullen says, filling the void left by the words, “time to explain these, then.”

She blinks down at the collection: red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and a thicker, dark band all stare back up at her.

“The dark band, as you apparently already know, signifies a Dominant. The purple ribbon—” Master Ben taps the one already fastened to her member’s wristband with one long, large finger— “signifies a submissive.”

In his grasp, she feels herself blush.

“Based on our conversation, and on your paperwork,” the bartender continues, “I’ll be adding yellow, blue, and green to your wristband.”

She watches as his fingers pick out one each of the ribbons.

“Red," he explains, "is for subs that enjoy serious pain. It’s for masochists. As far as I can tell, that doesn’t include you. Yellow indicates subs that do or can enjoy mild to moderate pain. This includes most impact play, minus bullwhips and the more serious floggers and canes.”

Her eyes jump to Master Ben’s, and it unnerves her that his seem to do the same. She breaks the connection immediately.

“Blue indicates that a sub enjoys bondage. It’s not an all-access pass to everything, though; you can still negotiate the kind of, and extent of, the bondage with your Dom. That goes for everything else, really, too. Green, meanwhile,” he said, picking up the last ribbon, “indicates a sub that is willing to have sex. This is also negotiable, obviously. We take enthusiastic consent very seriously here. To retain your green ribbon, you’ll also be required to submit full STI testing panel results every month. It’s worth noting that most members here use condoms unless they’re fluid bonded already. We’ve never had a problem with transmissions. But it’s required nonetheless to maintain safety.”

He gathers the three ribbons and hands them across the bar.

The Dom holding—no, _groping_ her—takes the ribbons, grasps her wrist like it’s _his_ , and starts fastening them to her wristband. She notices that he ties them in knots, not bows. Part of her breathes a sigh of relief.

“Ben,” Cullen says again, voice back to the serious tone. “Seriously. Trainee program.”

Ben, for his part, sighs. He presses his plush lips together and thinks hard for a moment. “Fine. If she’s not meant to be here, she’ll leave even quicker.”

She flinches at the impact. Somehow, for some reason, it hurts. “We do it next week?”

_Do what?_

“Can’t. Won’t be here.”

Master Cullen sighs. “Can you round up the others when the night’s about to wrap? We can do it then if everybody’s down to stay a little late.”

She freezes. Stay late? What are they planning— “Sure.”

And just like that, her fate seems sealed.

“Great. Talk then. Don’t forget to tell the others.”

The tall, long-haired, pompous-looking Dom strokes her skin one last time and drops his hand to walk away. She doesn’t mean to—she tries so hard to suffocate the noise—but she feels herself whimper.

He stops, a haughty smirk plastered to his face, and leans down.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers only to her, deep voice lulling her into compliance while he presses his lips to the skin behind her ear. “I’ll take you in hand soon enough.”


	5. The Peacock

She spends the night discovering what it is to be nude at a BDSM club: not bad. Master Cullen allows—no, _wants_ —her to stay at the bar, and she’s all too happy to keep her ass glued to the stool. What seemed terrifying once grows to be a little exciting; he _likes_ that she’s naked. No one seems to mind, and the eyes on her body seem shockingly respectful. A few men ask to play with her breasts.

She lets the ones who strike up a conversation.

The Masters, however, do _not_ ask. She finds this out when firm, rough hands caress her suddenly from behind.

She jumps.

The man’s hands fall away, then rub at her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” a warm voice says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“She’s new,” Cullen volunteers, nodding once at the man who now stands by her side.

He’s tall— _they’re_ _all tall_ —his darker-blond hair contrasting with piercing blue eyes. He wears a suit that she’s sure has been tailored to his body. It molds to powerful thighs, tapering down his legs to insufferably shiny dress shoes. A pressed, cream shirt rests under a Navy jacket.

 _Damn_. She must have missed the Navy memo.

He ignores her less-than-subtle examination of him while he conducts one of his own.

“She a bar ornament?” he asks, not to her. She frowns slightly, unsure what to make of the words, even angrier she isn’t included in a conversation about her. _Again_.

“Mhm,” Cullen makes a noise of though, “Sort-a. Apparently she didn’t dress how Ben had asked. Told her to strip instead.”

“Harsh.”

“Pretty sure it was mostly an excuse to get her naked.”

“Can you blame him?” the unfamiliar man wonders aloud, trailing a large hand up the side of her face.

She blushes even though a small voice screams at her that she should feel _patronized_ and _used_ and—

“You’re a pretty thing, darlin,” he murmurs, quieting those voices all at once. Even the one sensitive to how the skin on her back folds—how her stomach gathers when she sits—falls silent. She relaxes a little more in her seat, daring to give him a small smile.

“Thanks. Sir.”

He returns her smile and she finds it rich and warm like Master Cullen’s. “I’m Master Marcus, darlin, though ‘Sir’ sounds nice on your lips, too. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You too,” she breathes, feeling like she sounds a little dumb. His thumbs are back on her breasts, kneading her nipples into peaks again. “What’s a bar ornament?” she asks quietly, not entirely sure if she truly wants the answer.

“Oh,” he nods towards the hooks suspended above the bar. “Pretty common to tie lil’ subbies up here when they’ve misbehaved. Gives the members a little bit of a show and, well, makes the bar look nicer.”

Her eyes must’ve gone wide, for both men snicker.

“But it looks like that wasn’t your punishment. I’m a little disappointed it isn’t—I’m sure some nice rope work would look beautiful on you.”

If her cheeks hadn’t gone red before, they were _glowing_ now.

“Not sure this is a punishment at all, actually,” Master Marcus continues, looking pointedly at her peaked nipples. “I think you like this.”

“I—” she starts, then stops just as quickly to consider her words before speaking them. _Stay calm. Stay polite._ “I haven’t done this before. It’s a little out of my comfort zone.”

“Is it? You adjust fast.”

She’s aware her lips are parted and even more aware that she practically _pants_ when he twists a nipple experimentally.

“You sure I shouldn’t tell Ben his punishment isn’t working?”

She shakes her head furiously, eyes wide and pleading. “Please don’t. Please—”

“Shh,” the Dom hushes her, grinning mischievously. “I think it can be our little secret just this once.”

Her eyes half roll up into her head in relief; then she recovers and glares at him. “That was mean,” she complains. “Sir.”

He only smirks.

“Gonna need a beer, Cullen.”

“Coming right up. Oh—speaking of Ben. Did he tell you ‘bout the meeting tonight?” The bartender opens a cooler beneath the bar-top as Marcus nods.

“That’s her right there, you know.”

“Oh.” The Dom with his hands on her cocks a head to one side. “Isn’t she a bit new for a trainee position?”

Cullen shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You sure you’re not thinking with your dick?”

 _Oh_ _god. There it is._

She squirms uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ben agrees.”

“You sure Ben isn’t thinking with _his_ dick?”

Cullen flashes his friend—at least, she thinks they’re friends—a wicked smile. “Is that truly so bad?”

Marcus chuckles, the piercing blue gaze of his eyes returning to hold the not-piercing-blue gaze of hers. “Mhm,” he breathes, swiping his thumb on her cheek again. “Maybe not.”

“Seriously, you should see the way she—”

The Dom holds up a hand. “Save it,” he comments, picking up the beer the other man’s set down on the bar-top. “You can go through your speech later when everyone can hear it.”

He winks once at the two of them before walking away.

* * *

A pit in her stomach forms as the night winds down.

What were they even planning for her? What could possibly require all the Masters in one room? Nothing good, she images with a shiver. Maybe some kind of perverse gang-bang.

More than anything, she’s appalled that she’s not totally against the thought.

She’s so deep into the silent argument with herself that she doesn’t hear him the first time he tells her it’s time to go.

“Subbie?”

Master Cullen peers down at her with an eyebrow raised.

She snaps out of it with a start and straightens quickly.

“Sorry.”

“Mind somewhere else?”

“Yes, Sir. Um. What’s going to happen?”

He only smiles, a little twinkle in his eye. “Nothing to worry about.”

Her lips press into a thin line. It’s not really the answer she was looking for. “That’s not really—I’m nervous.”

“A little nervousness never killed anyone,” he adds unhelpfully as he takes her arm.

* * *

She’s pretty confident nervousness _can_ and _has_ and _will_ kill someone when the ninth consecutive gold-band-wearing Dom walks into the room.

A few of them are chatting with each other; a few stare at her, still naked, standing on the other side of the room where Master Cullen told her to stay.

_Come._

_Stay._

_Great, I’m a dog._

She raises her arms, careful not to block the view of her breasts—she’s sure she won’t get away with that—and folds them just below. The small gesture makes her feel, irrationally, a bit more protected.

That is, until someone shoots it down.

“Lower your arms,” a gruff-looking Dom orders from a corner. He looks nowhere as nice as Master Cullen or Master Marcus. Worst of all, the command attracts the attention of _everyone else_. She swallows hard as nine sets of eyes fall on her.

“Um,” she starts awkwardly, lowering her arms. She casts a worried glance at the two Doms out of the nine who are actually _Dommes_. “Look, I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself straight, but—”

“Male Doms only. We know,” Cullen says, flipping her paperwork open casually. “But Mistress Olivia and Mistress Anne are still DMs, and still help manage the trainees, so they’re here regardless.”

“It’s really not fair, you know,” the blonde Domme starts. She stands taller than most of the men, even, statuesque and exuding confidence with every motion. “You guys get them all.”

“Hey,” a Dom she hasn’t met objects somewhere down the line, “you got Victoria.”

The Domme smiles. “True. Thank god she’s a lesbian. Untouched by you creeps.”

Some of the men chuckle.

She almost relaxes.

“Why is she naked, Cullen? New policy for trainee recruits I haven’t heard about?”

_Dammit._

“You can thank Ben. Said she disobeyed an order to come to the Club less conservatively dressed.”

She presses her eyes closed.

“So we’re considering an entirely new _and_ disobedient sub for a trainee position?” The Dom sounds _mad_. She makes a mental note to change her name, move to a new planet, and become a grappaberry farmer.

She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter.

“Open your eyes, honey,” she hears Cullen command smoothly before his voice shifts away from her to address the other man. “Hear me out first, Nolan.”

She takes a breath, searching the line for friendly faces. She finds Master Marcus; he offers a smile and a wink. Her eyes flick to Master Cullen; his eyes hold approval, too. She relaxes even more.

Then she makes the mistake of glancing at Master Ben.

His eyes suggest something else entirely. She’s not exactly sure _what_ , but the raw intensity sears at her insides. She feels her blood pressure spike, her heart misses a beat, and she pulls her eyes away as quickly as she can manage.

She swears for a moment that she sways.

“Right,” Cullen speaks just in time. “So,” he addresses her, “I’m going to explain why I think you should be here, then we’re going to tell you a bit about what it means to be a trainee. If you’re still interested, each unattached Dom will tell you a bit about himself. You’ll have the opportunity to ask him questions, which hopefully will help familiarize you to who you’ll be playing with over the coming weeks.”

She nods, unsure of what else to do.

“First, though, let’s improve your posture. Hands behind your back, please. Lace your fingers together. And move your feet so they stand a pace apart.”

She tries not to glower as she obeys. Only because it’s _him_ and he’s _nice_ , she convinces herself, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable.

She’s rewarded with a warm smile—and another from Master Marcus, two men down the line, who even offers her a thumbs-up. She nearly giggles.

“Very nice, little subbie. That pushes your breasts out nicely.” She blushes.

He waits a beat. “ _Good girl._ ”

It makes her stomach twist wonderfully; it makes heat rise on her cheeks. It makes her _melt_. She’s vaguely aware of her pussy clenching down on nothing.

“And _that’s_ why she belongs here,” she hears Master Cullen breathe to the others. “So eager. I doubt this lil’ girl will admit it, but I think she’s sweet deep down in there. She just needs a good, strong hand. You may have heard of what happened with Dalton—” she’s vaguely aware of some nodding heads “—and that’s my concern. Little subbie here _does_ have quite the attitude. But some of it is fair; junior varsity domination doesn’t work for her. She’ll be topping from the bottom all over the place—probably traumatize all the casuals.”

“So we’re just expected to whip her into shape?” the angry Dom asks again as she cringes at the inopportune phrasing. “I’m not interested in curbing the attitude of a misbehaving sub just because she’s a menace to—”

“Nolan,” Cullen cuts across him, “stop. I’m not finished.” The other man—Nolan—scowls but obliges him.

What he says next makes her stomach lurch again in a way that’s becoming all too familiar. “Even Ben agrees her little attitude problem is fixable.”

Her eyes fly to him against her better judgement—but he isn’t looking at her this time. No, this time he’s biting the edge of a nail like he can’t be bothered.

“All bark, no bite,” the tall Dom murmurs softly in that trademark smooth baritone. She _swears_ it sounds like a challenge. In fact, she _knows_ it is.

_I’ll show you bite, you self-righteous, arrogant, motherfu—_

“I already have a sub,” the man named Nolan huffs.

“So don’t scene with her,” Cullen responds shortly.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The spat dies, and she’s frankly a little proud of how quiet she’s managed to be through it all. “Maybe more to the point,” the bartender continues after a moment, “while she’s not a masochist—sorry, Sam—” he gestures to a Dom down the line, whose face falls— “she seems to need the kind of impact play I wouldn’t trust just anyone to give. She’s new, yes, and she’ll need some firm corrections, but I think a trainee position is in everyone’s best interest.”

He pauses for a second.

“Any other urgent objections? Otherwise, let’s hold questions until the end. Best not to scare her too much when you might be able to suss out answers for yourself when we’re going through introductions.”

To her great relief—she literally slumps backwards against the wall a tiny bit, growing weak in the knees—no one else seems hellbent on keeping her from the program.

Not that she even understands what it is yet, she thinks bitterly. But Masters Cullen, Marcus—they want her in the program. Their desire—their _approval_ —feels so good she swears she’s inexplicably a little tipsy.

 _You forgot Ben_ , a little voice in her head notes. She slaps it down immediately.

“Well then, this next part is for your ears, Rhea.”

She startles back to reality at the sound of her Club name.

“The trainee program is meant to give subs experience through a regimen of high standards, service, and performing demonstration scenes with the more experienced Dominants. Typically, this means trainees are already experienced submissives, but occasionally exceptions are made where appropriate,” Cullen remarks, gesturing at her. “You’ll be expected to dress and act as an example to the other subs. You’ll serve drinks in shifts; this is designed to introduce you to a wide swath of members, one of whom will hopefully become your Dom. You may know that the Club Masters are expected to teach the members best practices, techniques, et cetera. Similarly, trainees are expected to be our demo partners. So it’s likely you’ll play with everyone up here at least once, even if the scene is non-sexual in nature.”

She tries to keep up with the flood of information, nodding her head politely despite its spinning. She takes a deep breath, tries to right herself.

“Speaking of which, who here is both unattached and actively looking for a single sub?”

She glances up at the line of men, eyes resting on the ones who’ve held a hand up. A fair-skinned, dark-eyed man stalking her from the edge of the line; Marcus and those piercing blue eyes; Cullen; a menacingly-ripped looking Dom in tight leathers; and _him_.

“Right,” Cullen breathes, looking to his left, then to his right. “So we have Master Sam, Master Marcus, myself, Master Dan, and Master Ben.”

Each man either waves or smiles at her—except the last. She scowls right back at him.

“Unfortunately, we can probably remove Master Sam from your list of long-term collar prospects, as he’s a straight-up sadist.”

The man smirks. She flinches.

“You make that sound so awful. You’ve poisoned her against me!” the man jokes lightly, giving her a warm grin she never expected to come from an admitted _sadist_.

“You can cross Master Ben off the list too, then.”

She finds herself saying the words, disembodied voice emerging from her mouth before she can stop it. She manages to sound impressively confident, though she’s not sure what’s possessed her to be so bold, nor _why_.

There’s a moment of collective silence, then an exhale.

“Wow. She really does have an attitude,” a Dom—the one identified as Master Dan—says. “Not sure I’d pick on Ben if I were you, sweetheart.”

She presses her lips into a straight line. Master Ben, for his part, has folded his arms. He stares at her, unamused and apparently very unimpressed.

“Don’t worry,” he comments with that same dangerous softness, “she’ll be gagged when she scenes with me. Either with the balls of a gag, or with mine.”

She blinks once, twice, three times before it registers.

 _Everyone_ chuckles—even the Mistresses. Her cheeks burn a bright red, and it takes her a moment to realize her mouth has dropped open.

Worst of all, she feels a wave of lubrication threaten to wet her upper thighs.

“On a serious note,” Cullen starts—

“I am serious,” Ben interjects unnecessarily—

“—Master Ben isn’t a sadist, love.”

 _Could’ve fooled me_.

“And,” he pitches his tone lower, harsher, “watch that little mouth.” He gives her a moment to digest the warning before continuing.

“Because the trainee program is designed to push you out of your comfort zone to meet new people and try new things, while your safe word remains valid, you’ll no longer be choosing your partners. Instead, trainees are assigned to Doms—usually one of the Masters—for scenes. Regular members can request you for scenes, too, but those requests go through the Master of the trainees. So, me.”

She breathes a loud, too-audible sigh of relief that it’s _Master Cullen_ that’s in charge. His eyes crinkle. She isn’t subtle.

“Does that make sense?”

She hesitates for a moment.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a lot to think about. I think I need… time to process everything.”

He nods, a look of consideration plastered on his face. “That’s fine. We’ll finish our discussion tonight and you can get back to us when you’ve made a decision.”

She takes a moment to breathe, then nods. “Yes, Sir.”

“Right, so,” he starts up again, rustling her paperwork, “for everyone’s reference, her hard limits are listed as no needles, no fire, no intentional bloodplay. No exchange of fluids you wouldn’t expect from regular sexual play. Anything you need to add to that, love?”

She frowns and thinks for a few moments. “I don’t think I want to do medical play.”

He shrugs and scrawls something on the paper. When she looks around, no one looks too disappointed in her. She takes a deeper breath and tries to relax.

“Anything else?”

She pauses again, longer this time, trying to formulate the words. “I—I don’t want to be made fun of. Called stupid or anything. It’s too personal; it gets inside my head in a bad way. I’m okay with sexually-based stuff, I think—”

“Slut, whore, fuckhole?”

 _Jesus._ She swallows a more affirmative reaction and simply nods. “All fine and good. Sir.”

“Soft limits? Things you’re currently scared of but might want to try eventually?”

She hesitates. “Harder impact play, I guess. Suspension.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think so, Sir.”

“Now,” he started up again, the playful smirk crossing his face a too-late indication of mischief, “this little subbie seems to have a bit of an oral fixation, folks.”

Her eyes blink, her head swims, and she’s now _quite_ sure that she sways in place as Master Cullen details, with a fondness, every kink she’s ever expressed an interest in.

_God._

* * *

She soon finds out that an _introduction_ means heavy petting in the arms of a Dom while he tells you everything he wants to do to you.

_I’m a goner._

She’s given up on hiding the slickness between her legs as Marcus claims a kiss on the cheek and passes her off to Cullen, who snuggles her close in the same playful way. She feels comfortable enough with the first two men—safe—and arrives to Master Dan, an unfamiliar one, already soaked.

“Be a good girl and come here, Honey,” the large Dom purrs. Strong, corded, overly-muscular arms open for her. He pulls her against him when she takes a tentative step forward and smiles.

“Well, then, I’m Master Dan,” he starts, one massive hand trailing un-shyly down her backside. He palms one cheek of her ass before giving it a light slap. Then he squeezes.

The walls of her pussy clamp down on nothing. She shivers.

“You need to be fucked, don’t you?” he breathes into her ear, teeth nibbling her lobe. “You’d sound so pretty under me, moaning for me, begging for me.”

She feels her cheeks go hot, same as before. She presses her forehead into his broad chest, a leather vest opened to either side. She feels something rumble within him as he pulls her body against him, pressing her up against something hard, and thick, and long. His length may be hidden beneath leather pants, but his desire isn’t.

“Some other time,” he breathes to an involuntary whimper from her. “I’ve been dominating little subbies like you for six years now,” he explains, hands kneading her ass, spreading her cheeks, rubbing deeply. “Mhm, let’s see,” he clicks his tongue, “I’d say I’m most interested in Shibari— it’s a kind of rope bondage—paddling, and public sex. Any of those sound interesting to you?”

She nods slightly, just as she’d done with the others. When she speaks, she barely hears her own words.

“I’m willing to try.”

“Give him a kiss and thank him for teaching you,” Cullen prompts again.

She does, and the Dom smiles, broad shoulders settling as he squeezes her ass one more time. “You’re welcome.”

A deep, cold shiver sets into her as he lets her go, her feet carrying her one place down the line. The warm playfulness she’d felt a moment ago drops out from under her when her eyes come to rest on dark, laced up dress shoes.

_Don’t let him intimidate you._

She raises her eyes, puffs out her chest, and forces her spine to stand up straight. She will _not_ be intimidated. She won’t—

“I think I want you on your knees when I speak to you.”

She scowls openly at the Dom now, his dark, calculating eyes resting on hers. When she doesn’t reflexively obey his command, sizeable hands grasp her shoulders and begin pushing her down.

A hand fists in her hand—less hard than the last time, but firm and inescapable nonetheless—and force her chin up so she looks up at him while he looks _down_ at her.

He doesn’t smirk; he stares at her with an intensity burning in his gaze. “The others, they’re too anxious to get you onto their cocks.”

She blanches, swallowing a look of hatred. The tall Dom seems to tower above her even more than usual from this angle. His longer, dark hair frames his jaw as he bends over her, an ever- confident expression of total control creeping across his features.

 _This fucking_ peacock _of a man—_

“I don’t blame them,” he says in that oddly poetic tone a moment later, voice somehow a deep staccato yet smooth and compelling all in one. “But you need to surrender control first.”

He punctuates the sentence with a tug on her hair, “because you’re not nearly submitting for real.”

Something deep inside her twists, a swell of anxiety burning into her belly. She feels little tears spring up in her eyes, barely there but threatening to grow into more. Somewhere, deep down, she knows he’s right. The others, they’re easy to charm with a nice smile and obedient behavior: but she hasn’t given anything up, not really. She wants to—wants to trust someone that much—but she’s not sure she can.

_No._

_No._

_This feels too intimate._

“Don’t be afraid,” he breathes, seemingly only to her. His chin flutters; he looks enraptured by a thought. “I feel it too.”

Her breath shudders. A part of her panics—but where there’s an instinct to run, there’s no will to do it.

“It’s in there,” he spreads moisture around her lips with his thumb, “and now you’ll give it to me.” He presses it into her mouth; a small voice in her head _screams_ when her lips part for him. “Suck.”

There’s a small moment of hesitation. He taps the other fingers of his hand against her cheek in warning.

_“Suck.”_

She does. She swears that maybe— _maybe_ —his eyes soften for a moment.

“There you go,” he affirms, that deep, rich voice managing to wrap around her like a warm blanket. There should be no feeling of safety in a position like this—she knows there shouldn’t. “This is where you belong. Remember this.”

_This is where I belong. Wait._

_No—_

“You see,” he continues, refusing her time to even _think_ , “my subs get everything they need. Whether they know they need it or not.”

He presses down on her tongue, simultaneously eliciting and suppressing a whimper.

“Let’s see,” he says casually, “I’ve been doing this for five years. I mostly get off on being served, discipline, emotional domination and care, and flogging. Any of that sound good to you?”

_No. None of it. All of it._

_No._

A streak of panic slices through her; her tongue battles for space in her mouth, tries to push him out.

“No,” she manages to verbalize, though the word comes out garbled.

“Rhea—” Cullen starts from somewhere to her left—

The Dom in front of her shushes him.

The pad of his thumb—his goddamn, fucking, too-big thumb, warm and large in her mouth— presses down harder on her tongue.

“You’ll give me everything in time.”

He sounds so assured, so confident, so calm.

She sees _red_.

When he pulls out of her mouth and steps back into the wall of Doms, she shoots him what she hopes amounts to a look of pure fury.

“I’m not. Giving you. Anything.”

The edges of his lips quirk, dark amusement dancing in his eyes. He thinks otherwise. He _knows_ otherwise.

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Cullen had given her good aftercare, she had to give the Club that. She’d left feeling good, happy to be voted in as a trainee—if she wanted the role. Even excited about her first shift.

But now, curled up on her hard mattress, alone, her mind begins to wander.

She turns into the feelings of warmth three of the Doms provided—but somewhere, deep inside her, a seed of doubt grows. It felt good when they’d held her, sure—safe, and warm, and protected. She could do what they asked with ease. But there was none of that dangerous spark that _he_ held. The kind that made her clit tingle and _throb._

They were like bullet vibrators—a girl’s best friend. The steady, safe option. Good for slow, well- placed fun. Enjoyable and dependable.

 _He_ was like a Hitachi Magic Wand—you will cum, and you will cum _now_ —a harsh, fast, brutal climax. Too much, and there’d be screaming.

“Fuck,” she hisses, rolling over, shoving a hand angrily under her nightgown and between her legs.

_Naboo, we have a problem._

She closes her eyes and does her best to think of Master Cullen; how his warm, green eyes crinkled when she made a joke. How he’d cupped her breasts. How he’d held her flush against his body, warm and huge, as he told her how much he wanted to tie her up.

She doesn't come. She can’t.

When succumbs to sleep, it's Master Ben she finds in her dreams.


	6. Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the first time I posted this: "A smol update. I had to either make this short or monstrous, and I thought dividing the chapters was a better approach. Back to your regularly scheduled sex dungeon content soon!"
> 
> Note from now: against my best wishes, I am still alive. I may retcon some of this fic, so look out for minor changes in past chapters. Some of the dialogue still hurts my heart. I can tell I wrote the first several drafts while horny. It shows.

“Ayse,” Peavey grits through his teeth, “no eating at your desk!”

She smirks at the squat, middle-aged man and rustles her hand around in the bag of cereal on her lap. “Huh?”

“ _Kriff_ —” the captain hisses. “Ayse, I swear—”

Some of the redness fades from his face, his knuckles gripping the surface of her workstation with enough force to drive them white. Above, on the bridge of the base, there’s a distinctive crunch of boots. Her face scrunches up; the noise—it sounds familiar. She cranes her neck to find the source.

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren stares down at the pair—or, at least, she assumes he does, as his helmet blocks any view of his features. Black robes billow around him despite the general lack of circulation on the bridge. She can’t deny that he has quite the presence.

She shivers, once. Peavey straightens up at once, suddenly ignoring the cereal transgression.

“Ah, my Lord,” he says stiffly, “Ayse was just confirming your travel logs for this Friday.”

She feels him kick the bottom post of her chair.

“Yes, Sir,” she mutters, straightening up herself. She clicks around on the terminal, refreshing her screen. Menial data entry validation is the worst part of her job; she hates it with every fiber, even though it’s her simplest task. She finds herself procrastinating whenever she can.

A few clicks later and she finds herself staring at the Command Shuttle docking and departure logs. Requests to dock and depart at base—or any of the First Order’s tertiary ships—are entered by staffers within the High Command service center. From there, the requests are routed to the military division responsible for high command, who check to ensure there are no unusual threats to the Triumvirate and that appropriate resources are in place at the destination location. Finally, the request is vetted by High Command engineers—Ayse’s group—for documentation purposes.

>Ship: Command Shuttle

>Passenger: Cmdr. Kylo Ren; support staff

>Destination: _Supremacy_

>Cleared destination (Y/N): Y

>Notes:

Ayse yawns inadvertently, scrolling lazily through the notes documenting purpose of visit—something about the Supreme Leader—and other garbage she doesn’t care to read. She straightens up, presses ‘Reviewed’ decisively, and nods at Peavey.

“Excellent, well,” Peavey grasps both hands in obvious nervousness, “Everything is in order for your departure this Friday, my Lord.”

Kylo Ren says nothing; he stares for a long moment, downwards, as though looking for something he has forgotten. Peavey is situated right next to her, but she shudders at the distinct impression that Ren is looking at her— _only_ at her.

“My Lord,” she hears herself murmur.

* * *

“Ayse?”

She jumps; truthfully, she’d been drifting off in her chair.

“Wha—?”

“Can we see you for a moment? In _Mercury_?”

Her mouth runs dry. Mercury is the name of the executive conference room adjacent to the bridge. High-level planning meetings take place there; hirings and firings take place there.

 _Welp_ , she thinks, _it’s been fun_. She wonders, as her feet carry her up the ramp and across the walking-strip of the bridge, if she’ll be able to find another job quickly. She wonders, vaguely, if she’ll be happier in her next role.

What she finds before her puts those thoughts on hold. Or, rather, _who_ she finds in front of her.

Ayse is only somewhat aware of the blaster door to the conference room closing behind her. She’s too busy staring, open-mouthed, into warm green eyes at the far side of the table. The man who sits there, for his part, seems equally shocked. The expression vanishes from his face quickly; he returns to a stoic look of professionalism, crossing his large palms on the table.

It’s Cullen.

The distinct thought that this man has seen her naked makes her cheeks flare red. She takes a tiny, unconscious step backwards.

“Ayse,” Peavey begins. Her head whips to stare at him questioningly.

 _Oh god. They know about the club. They know_ —

“This is Lieutenant Poldin LeHuse. He represents the tactical and forensic arm of High Command engineering.”

Cullen—Poldin—nods neutrally.

Her jaw remains slack.

“I—?”

“We’re here today with happy news. Ayse, please sit.”

Peavey takes a place along the long conference table. It’s black as night and polished, uncomfortably reflective against the bright lights overhead. She finds herself staring into her hands to avoid the thick layer of tension in the room.

She swallows thickly.

Captain Peavey continues. “I’m pleased to say, Ayse, that— _somehow_ —” she sees the green-eyed man smile, a little hint of amusement gleaming there, “Lord Ren was pleased with your recovery work that secured the First Order access to the map to Skywalker. The tactical and forensics group here in High Command engineering recognizes the importance of retaining top talent with a critical, strategic skill-set like yours.”

She looked between the two men and blinks once, twice.

“Okay?” she asks, somewhat childishly, drawing out the _o_.

“So,” her captain continues, answering her silent question, “Today they’re extending a full-time offer to you.”

Her mind—a mind that always, _always_ raced, _always_ had a snappy comment—blanks.

A full-time offer.

A full-time job offer.

A job.

In high command engineering.

She blinks again to clear the tears threatening to form in her eyes. She hates the job; she hates the bureaucracy, the politics, the passive-aggressive bullshit and, often, the work itself. Yet, at the same time, it’s taken her entire education within the First Order to climb these ranks. The internship alone was a highly coveted spot; despite her general hatred for those in charge, she didn’t dare deny her privilege. She was, as she would admit readily, very comfortable thanks in large part to the opportunity to work within High Command.

A job offer like this brought all those perks—the promise of _comfort_ and _security_ —with it, and more. She, an orphan, would never want again. She would never work back-breaking shifts down in the First Order labor docks for little pay and no benefits. She would enjoy relative luxury among the most powerful in the galaxy.

She blinks again, thickly.

“I want,” she murmurs bravely, determined to milk the opportunity for all its worth, “to negotiate.”

Peavey stares at her like she’s crazy.


	7. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still hate the way I wrote this but lel. Reposting anyway. That's the only way I'll get the opportunity to write later, better chapters.

She shivers. Pink, scratchy gauze itches her thighs. She’d changed into a mesh babydoll tonight, no bra. Her stainless-steel piercings catch on the material from time to time; her nipples had already peaked.

She kneels in the line of trainees waiting for their nightly assignments. Her knees are slightly parted, hands behind her back, fingers laced together. She casts her eyes downward. She imagines she would usually be thrilled by the position—Master Cullen above her, going down the line, assessing each one of them. But not tonight; tonight, her stomach twists.

 _Of course: the hiring manager at work just_ has _to be the trainee manager at the club._

“Austin, you’re with David tonight.”

David was a large, handsome dark-haired dom into impact play and anal. Austin should be happy. Given how he leapt up, thanked Master Cullen, and scampered away towards his assignment, he was.

“Angela, you’ll scene with Master Dan.”

The woman mutters something sickly sweet and makes her way to the frightening-looking Dom across the club.

Master Cullen progresses down the line. Vanessa is assigned to a dom named Vance, who has requested a scene with her. Jessica is posted with Mistress Olivia for a medical roleplay demonstration. Drew is assigned to Mistress Anne for ball-crushing play. She cringes; she doesn’t even have balls, and it still sounds painful.

Sarah, the submissive to her right, is assigned to the bar area to serve drinks. She’s promptly dismissed, and Cullen’s polished dress shoes move in front of you.

Once she’s gone, a warm hand appears under your chin.

“Are you okay, little one?”

She can’t help but frown.

“It feels awfully embarrassing to be in this position. Uh, Sir.”

The man squats down so he’s level with her eyes.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I—” he pauses, “I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place from where. Look, you have my promise that what happens here won’t interfere with work. I won’t even be your manager; I just represent the group in hiring decisions, that’s all.”

She’s silent for a minute. “I know.”

“Do you trust me?”

His warm, green eyes search for evidence that she believes him.

“Enough.”

He smiles at her; he must know it’s an honest answer. “That’s all I ask,” he murmurs. Cullen’s unoccupied hand moves to scratch at the stubble of his beard. “I have to say, though, it’s a bold move to negotiate at this level, little one. I mean—” he rephrases carefully, picking up on the look of indignation in her eyes, “—I totally agree, women in technology are underpaid. Women in general are underpaid. I don’t even have a problem with you negotiating—but I don’t make that call. In your role, any negotiated figures are going to go straight to Hux or Ren.”

She swallows.

_Oh. Fuck._

“Yeah,” he continues, apparently sensing her discomfort with the thought, “be careful, please. Speaking off the record, the offer is already quite high—”

“I heard Garrett got more equity in _First Order Imports Group_.”

“I—” he stammers, “Ayse—Rhea— _fuck_ —” he runs a hand over his clipped dark hair, “You _know_ I can’t confirm nor deny that.”

She smiles knowingly.

“Look,” he says patiently, “just try to be reasonable and not piss anyone off about it, and I’ll try to drop a few words of encouragement to Ren.”

“You—” she blinks, brows knitted together, “Do you work with Kylo Ren?”

Cullen mirrors her look of confusion. “Of course? Did you not listen to Captain Peavey?” He glances around the club for any eavesdroppers, then lowers his voice. “I’m a Lieutenant in the tactical group. I’m the Supreme Leader’s wingman in the airborne division.”

“You’re a _pilot_?”

“I—” he stammers again, both hands gesturing, “ _That’s_ your question right now?”

She finds herself giggling at his surprise. The tension drains out of the man, and soon he grins and shakes his head.

Master Cullen’s jaw works for a moment, his usual Dom expression slowly re-animates his features. “Mhm. Well. You look lovely tonight.” A long, warm finger strokes under her chin.

“I know,” she smirks, flipping her hair over a shoulder dramatically. “Didn’t want Master Ben to tell me I look insufficiently slutty again.”

He smiles. Then it falls. “Wait— _uh, Rhea_ —Master Ben isn’t here today, remember?”

“ _Oh_.” She scowls a moment later when she realizes she sounds disappointed. “Good,” she adds quickly.

It’s Cullen’s turn to frown. “Don’t pick up an attitude, not when you were being so charming—”

She complains mildly with a small groan; he grins again and winks at her.

“You’ll be serving drinks tonight. Since you’re new, it’ll give you a good opportunity to meet the members. Remember that regular Doms can’t touch you intimately—between your legs, that is—without my permission. Masters can, of course, as you’ve consented to with the green ribbon, your paperwork, and our conversation last week.”

He steps back, allowing her to stand.

“Remember that your safe word is always valid here, though. No matter what. I doubt you’ll need it serving drinks, but it’s worth reminding you of.”

She nods. “I appreciate it, I really do.”

“Tell me what your safeword is?”

“Red.”

“And if, eventually, you need a scene to slow down but not completely end?”

“Then I can use ‘Yellow’ or ‘Mercy’.”

“Very good.” He offers a warm smile—and his hand—and takes a step towards the bar area. “Follow me, little one.”

* * *

She’s had a relatively calm night. She’s carried drinks back and forth between the rooms of the club and the broad, open space where the bar sits. She’s sat on the arm of a couch and joked with a good-natured Dom and his subbie wife—a subbie wife so pregnant that it looks as if she may pop at any moment.

She’s ferried water to protecting-looking Doms giving their bruised subs some much needed aftercare.

In the hours that pass, she fields fielded no small number of proposition; she finds them both flattering and reassuring, at least.

_I’m liked here. I’m safe here. I belong here._

As if on cue, large arms wrap around her.

“Hi, ‘lil subbie,” Master Marcus drawls, planting a kiss on her cheek, which promptly burns red.

“Oh. Hi, Sir.”

“Hi yourself.”

She cranes her neck to look at him; mischief dances in his eyes.

“How long have you been on your feet, honey?”

He plants a kiss on her neck before she can answer.

“Few hours,” she manages between giggles, thoroughly embarrassed to be coming undone so easily.

“Mhm?” he nuzzles her neck, “Join me for a drink?”

“I—I don’t know if I can?”

His hands, large with long, thin fingers, wrap around her hips and move up, up, up. He brushes the underside of her breasts, and she feels herself arching—

“Marcus! You distracting my trainee from her job?”

Cullen’s good-natured voice jolts them apart. Marcus drops his hand; she whines, mostly involuntarily.

“Poor subbie,” Marcus pouts dramatically, “Aren’t you going to give her a break?”

Cullen rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he waves, “she’s due for one anyway. You want a drink, little one?”

“Just a water, Sir.”

“Come sit on my lap,” Marcus murmurs into her ear.

“On second thought, make that a vodka cran.”

* * *

She finds out that sitting in Marcus’ lap isn’t nearly as sexual as she imagined—or, well, it is, but not quite as sexual as she imagined given that she’s practically working in a sex club and can _feel_ his erection under her.

He makes no sudden moves; he barely even touches her. He just holds her, pressed up against his chest, and allows her to sip her drink while he rubs up and down one of her arms. Honestly, it feels amazing just to get off her feet.

“Mhm, you really are quite pretty, darlin’.”

Heat rises on her cheeks again; she rests her forehead on his chest so he can’t have the satisfaction.

Marcus rubs a hand up her back, pausing at the nape of her neck to twirl the small hairs there.

“Yes,” he says softly, “I think we’ll scene together very soon. Even if I do have to fight Ben.”

She finds herself nodding sweetly—

_Wait._

_What?_

She jerks away when her brain catches up and processes the words. Her brows knit together, and she looks up into a concerned face.

“Master Ben?”

He seems to search for words. “I… thought you knew? He told everyone in no uncertain terms that you two were scening together first.”

She doesn't even try to stop her jaw from going slack, nor does she make any attempt to close her mouth. She just gapes, openly, at the man.

“ _Excuse me?”_

It wasn’t the right thing to say to _any_ Dom, let alone a Master of Club Starkiller, _let alone with that tone_.

The expression on Marcus’ face instantly shifts. The look of confusion—sympathy, even—drops from his face, replaced with an offended glare.

Cuddle time on the Dom’s lap was definitely coming to an end.

“Excuse _you_ ,” he says quietly, his characteristic accent managing to sound chilly for the first time.

“No—fuck y—” she bites it off, seething, “ _that_ rat _bastard_ —”

“Okay,” he says swiftly, taking her drink from her and setting it on the table. Both of his hands wrap around her upper arms, pulling her up as he stands. He walks her, cuffed in his grip, to the bar.

“Your trainee decided to have an attitude again, Cullen.”

The expression on the man behind the bar falls, too.

 _Fuck._ Why did it suck so much to disappoint them?

“Can’t have that, can we?” he says mildly with an exhale that sounds like regret.

A large, smooth palm works its way between her shoulders and presses down. It forces her to bend over one of the barstools, where Marcus holds her still.

“Since you insist on being so rude to members, now you’re going to make it up with a little treat.”

She swallows grimly. At least the anger in his voice has vanished, she thinks. He had returned to neutral speech, matter-of-factly explaining her punishment.

She listens to rustling somewhere to her right. Above her, the bartender passes Cullen binding rope.

“Stay still,” the taller of the men commands. She obeys with a soft whimper she didn’t intend to make. Behind her, the man’s lip twitches. “I know, honey,” he says, softer now, smooth rope wrapping around her wrists, securing her to the lowest rung of the stool. The same happens to her ankles, securing her on the other side, leaving her ass up in the air.

“I’m not going to spank you,” the man drawls gently, flipping up the back of her babydoll. “But I’m afraid you will be giving us all a nice view.”

With that, he tugs the material of her panties down around her thighs.

 _Fuck you, Ben_.

* * *

She knows punishments are supposed to make you sorry. They're supposed to teach you a lesson and give you time to reflect and calm down.

Unfortunately for her—or maybe everyone else—the longer she stays tied to the stool, the more pissed off she grows.

 _How_ dare _he stake any claim to her? How_ dare _he ask any of the others to keep their distance? How dare he—_

_Who did he think he was?!_

She balls her hands into fists, tensing and relaxing them. Rage bubbles up inside her; she imagines, over and over, storming up to him, shoving a finger in his chest, and telling him to go fuck himself.

“I have the distinct impression,” Marcus drawls dryly, laying a hand on her naked back, “that this punishment isn’t working.”

“At least we get the view,” Cullen chimes.

She growls at them both.

Then, just then, the thought pops into her head—so many club members were within the upper rankings of the First Order: _what if Master Ben was one of the crew members on the command shuttle?_

He just _happened_ to be absent— _he_ , the Dom that everyone said rarely missed DM shifts—on the day that Kylo Ren departed Starkiller Base?

What if that was it? What is he _was_ one of the crew members? That would mean, she thinks with a self-satisfied smirk, that his real name would be on the crew manifest.

_I’m going to find out who you are, and I’m going to give you hell._


	8. Waiting Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your comments. I totally get that it's probably a character flaw, but they really do help me find my way, especially with this fic, which has a very niche audience. I really appreciate your support, and I get a kick out of reading your thoughts.
> 
> Thanks again.

Kylo Ren remained stationed on _Supremacy_ for the next six days. As the negotiated amounts she requested required approval from senior tactics leadership—both Hux and Ren—her offer hung precariously in the balance while the latter man was gone. Hux had simply sneered, muttered something about the defense budget, and signed off. Ayse had scurried off before he could take it back.

Work and school proceeded as normal otherwise—which is to say, they slogged along at a remarkably slow pace. She would have looked forward to the release of the Club, but Marcus’ comment replayed over and over in her head.

_He told everyone in no uncertain terms that you two were scening together first._

_Well then_ , she thought, standing in front of her mirror, _fuck him_. Ayse stared at herself in the mirror, turning every which angle. She sighed, reached around to her back, and struggled to pull the next clasp closed. When it finally latched, she pulled the drawstrings tight and knotted them several times over.

This process continued for the next half hour as she wiggled into the tight bodysuit and corset, tying the elaborate back with strained effort. Her shoulders ached by the end of it, but she smirked to herself anyway. When every tie was pulled tight and knotted to hell, she tied a larger ribbon around her waist and into a bow.

 _Bring it_.

* * *

Master Cullen’s heavy footsteps worked their way down the line of trainees, assigning each to their nightly post. The drink shifts rotated up one sub every week, relieving her of the job for the night—except that it wasn’t a relief, because it meant she would likely be assigned an individual job, and she knew who that _individual_ was likely to be.

“Rhea, you’ll scene with Master Ben tonight.”

 _Fuck_. She pressed her eyes closed with the effort of not cursing aloud. It wasn’t particularly a surprise, but she’d hoped Marcus had only been fucking with her.

Cullen patiently waited for the customary affirmative response.

“Rhea?”

She swallowed every bitter retort that threatened to rise (of which there were many).

“Yes, Sir.”

He paused overhead. The man reached down after a long moment, stroking the side of her face with his thumb. “Good girl,” he purred, obviously aware of her inner monologue, “There you go. He’s monitoring the medical play room at the moment; you can report to him there.”

The man turned to leave, but then seemed to think better of it. “You know, it’ll be easy if you’re behaved.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t sound like she believed him; she didn’t.

“Master Ben is very experienced—”

“He’s an asshole.”

“ _Rhea_.”

“He’s an asshole, _Sir_.”

The man rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. When he turned and walked away without comment, she thought she saw a wry smile peeking out from beneath his fingers.

* * *

Rhea, of course, did not report to Master Ben in the medical roleplay room. Instead, once Master Cullen was out of sight, she went the exact opposite direction. She slipped through a series of entryways until she reached the furthest one, where a golden plaque was nailed into the beam of a wide, wooden entryway.

_Fixtures Room_

She scaled the wall, keeping her distance from ongoing play, doing her best to blend in with onlookers. It was the first time she’d been inside the room—she’d only seen it from a distance while serving drinks, as no alcohol was allowed in play areas. The room resembled the others in the club; open and accommodating, different stations for different types of kink set sufficiently far apart to allow couples—or _more_ than couples—to stage scenes.

Dark-grain wood paneling covered the floors and walls, resembling woodsy cabins like she’d read about on her tablet. The place gave the impression of strictness and control, sure, but the little details carried hints of comfort. The lighting above was soft as to not hurt a sub’s eyes; a stack of warmed blankets sat in a heated box in the corners for use in aftercare; skin-soothing lotions, bandages, and other first aid supplies were on hand to ensure no one left hurt. At least, not in a way they didn’t want to be. When an ear-splitting scream tore through the room, Rhea knew it was one of pleasure.

She watched—quietly, with her arms folded, hoping to obscure her wrist-band and ribbons—as the Domme of the screaming sub dropped her instrument of pain and walked to his head, patting the crying man reassuringly. He sniffled for a few moments longer while the Domme leaned down and offered some gentle words. Rhea recognized the exchange; the Domme had confirmed he wanted to continue, and they were off again. Something about the display was oddly touching. Rhea squirmed in place, suddenly too-conscious of the wetness between her thighs. She imagined _she_ was tied down, _she_ had just taken an especially hard swat, and her Dom—she tried very hard to ignore how her brain supplied Master Ben’s face—checked in with _her_ with all the same gentleness.

Rhea pulled her eyes away from the scene. It was obviously dangerous territory, what with a thought like that—

She spent the next many minutes watching a variety of scenes. She’d watched a sub getting whipped by his Dom on a St. Andrew’s cross; watched a number of light spanking scenes; and witnessed a rather engaging flogging that ended with the sub sucking her Master’s swollen, red, dripping—

_Okay, okay. Control yourself._

She glanced at the clock on the wall with flushed cheeks. The flush, however, immediately vanished. Rhea paled as she realized an entire hour and a half had passed.

A little seed of insecurity blossomed in her belly. She had just assumed that Master Ben would come hunt her down, assert that she was his, and drag her into whichever room he intended to scene in. It would’ve made him so easy to hate if he had. But here she was: left alone, waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

Rhea swallowed thickly and took a few slow steps to the entryway, her hand palming the wooden panels all the way, almost as a way of grounding her. When she left the room, she began the long walk across the Club space to the medical playroom, heart fluttering anxiously in her chest.

She paused when she saw him. Leaned up against the wall, he still wore his dungeon master ribbon. It was like they had never been scheduled to play together at all. His arms were crossed, unhelpfully accenting thick, strong arms. He wore dark, casual pants and a simple black sweater. She never knew something so pedestrian could look, well, like _that_.

Rhea choked back her wavering desire to run and steeled herself instead. She _wasn’t_ a timid person; she _wouldn’t_ let this get to her—

She closed the distance between them and leaned against the wall with one arm, the other on her hip.

“You forgot to get me, boss.”

The man was silent for a few moments. She felt a pang in her stomach when his eyes didn’t drop to hers like she expected. Instead, he continued watching the scenes in front of him.

“ _You_ ,” the started softly, never looking at her, “forgot your place. Again.”

The girl took an involuntary step back. The verbal backhand _stung_ ; she wasn’t sure how or why it hurt so much.

“I—” she stammered, unsure of what to say, “I thought you would—”

“You thought wrong,” he snapped. She flinched again. He didn’t move, didn’t look at her, but the coolness in his tone could not be more clear. “You were commanded to report to me, were you not?”

She swallowed the little tears threatening to form in her eyes.

“Yes, Sir.” She could barely hear herself.

“You disobeyed a direct order—and somehow you expect _me_ to fix it for you. No one here is into children, so I suggest you stop acting like one.”

With that, her jaw dropped a little, and the tears that were once only a vague threat became very real.

“Not every punishment is a simple spanking. Your behavior has consequences. Sometimes it means people lose interest.”

And that— _that_ —was a punch to the gut. She felt like she was doubled over, all wind knocked from her lungs. Rhea had to fight to suppress the strange sound threatening to burst from her chest; she wiped a hot tear from her cheek, spun on a heel, and practically ran from the room.

* * *

Running headfirst into Master Cullen wasn’t exactly how she’d planned this to go, but it worked nonetheless.

“ _I’m sorry, I_ —”

“Woah, woah, woah; the fuck happened?”

“— _can’t see, I’m sorry, I’m_ —”

Rhea was practically wheezing, gasping in little raspy breaths for air as she sobbed. The Dom wasted little time in wrapping corded arms around her.

“Okay, I’m really confused; I’ve never seen anyone genuinely upset after a Ben scene—”

“I didn’t—” she breathed, forcing the words through tears.

“—didn’t go.”

A pregnant pause hung in the air.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t—” she took a deep breath, “—report to him.” She shook her head by way of explanation. “I didn’t go. I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Shh,” he murmured, patting her head, “Shh.”

“I’m sorry—I—”

Rhea paused; the man felt her muscles tense.

“Aren’t you going to punish me?”

A low groan emerged from the Dom’s throat.

“I think Ben already handled it,” he said sympathetically. Then, lower, more to himself than to her, “ _By the looks of things._ ”

By all accounts, Cullen handled the situation well. He let the little sub cry against his chest for a few moments until the worst of the sobs had gone. Then, when she was more sniffling than crying, he led her to the bar, slipped behind it, and poured her a drink. He slid it across the bartop—along with more napkins than the drink needed—and leaned into her space.

“Why don’t you tell me what he said?” the man asked gently, though Rhea knew it was a veiled command.

“Basically,” she sniffed, “that I should fuck off and die.”

Cullen sighed, twirling a toothpick between large fingers. “We both know he didn’t say anything of the sort.”

She sniffed again, softer this time. “Might as well have.”

“Rhea—”

“He said,” she offered impatiently, shooting the Dom a betrayed look before hiccupping once. He would’ve smirked in any other circumstance; it was vaguely cute. “Something about how I’m being a child and how much he isn’t interested in me.” She sniffed once more, maybe for dramatic effect. He couldn’t tell.

“Mhm.”

She didn’t waste another beat.

“Don’t you think he’s being _unfair_?”

The man raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you think you’re being unfair?”

She swallowed. He watched her throat bob.

“How so,” she asked quietly, sipping on her drink with an obvious bitterness.

“Do you really think it’s unfair for a Dom to expect a submissive to be… submissive?” He took a breath, trying to find a firm but compassionate tone. “Especially as a trainee, Rhea. We’re trusting you to set precedent for the other subs.”

Across from him, the girl felt her stomach twist again. Ouch. She stared at her drink, sniffling back residual tears. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“It just—I just—I didn’t think it was a super big deal. I just thought he’d come find me.”

Cullen sighed. “Lil’ sub, if he wanted to hunt you down, he’d drag your ass back here on Wednesdays when we do the capture games.”

Questions bubbled to the surface, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, she said nothing, rubbing at the condensation forming on her glass.

“Well don’t worry about it, ‘cause now he hates me, anyways.”

She watched the Dom suppress an eyeroll.

“He _does not_ hate you.”

“That’s not what he says.”

“Really?” Cullen asked her gently, “Then why did he follow you?”

She paused, one hand suspended in the air over the glass she’d been reaching for. She turned, very slowly, to look over her shoulder in the direction of the bartender’s gaze.

Master Ben sat in one of the large leather seats against the wall. He chatted casually with a Dom who’d sat down across from him, occasionally smiling or laughing with the other man.

She whipped her head back around and swallowed.

“Coincidence.”

Cullen bopped her on the nose, lightly, with a single finger. “Pretty sure he picked up the next DM shift, given he still has the ribbon on his band. And,” the Dom said pointedly, casting a glance at his watch, “that shift isn’t over yet.”

She ground her teeth.

_He wasn’t off-duty yet. He should’ve been in a playroom. He shouldn’t be here._

_Oh._

Rhea shook her head stubbornly. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

The bartender sighed. “Fine,” he said to her, something annoyingly knowing in his tone, “…but if you do decide to apologize,” he murmured, placing a bottle of dark liquid on the bartop, “this is his favorite beer.”

* * *

Rhea wasn’t sure how long she stared at the glass bottle across from her. She’d memorized every groove and divot in the glass. She’d committed the logo and its label design to her memory. She’d counted the numbers on the nutrition facts label, added them all up, divided them through, tried to remember her multiplication tables.

Nothing distracted her enough.

Master Cullen stopped in front of her after a while, his gaze moving between her and something—no, some _one_ —behind her.

“You know,” he said softly, “you really should—”

She shook her head. He opened his mouth to argue, and she shook her head more.

“I can’t.” Her voice cracked on the word.

“You—”

“I _can’t_.”

She slinked off the seat, tears welling in her eyes again, and muttered an apology. Rhea powerwalked across the threshold of the club, towards the door of the entrance, and slipped out.

When she found herself back in the familiar, sleek halls of Starkiller Base proper, she pressed her back up against the wall, closed her eyes, and heaved.

 _I can’t_.


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you ever noticed how flake cereal smells like dust?”

Justin glanced up, confused. “Uh, no, Ayse, I haven’t.”

Justin was a fellow fourth-year in computer science and the boyfriend she probably should’ve had but didn’t. He was reliable, kind, and generous, all to a fault. Whenever she needed help with homework, Justin was there. Whenever she didn’t want to walk alone to class, Justin was there. When she broke up with her last boyfriend and went on a bender, getting drunk and high for an entire term, Justin was—albeit with lots of good-natured comedy at her expense—there.

“You really look like a savage when you eat it out of the bag.”

“I _am_ a savage.”

“You only _think_ that.”

She made a small _hmph_ and shoveled another fistful of the dry cereal into her mouth.

“Didn’t see you at operating systems today,” he remarked.

She shook her head.

“Or at architecture.”

Ayse shot him a pointed glare.

“Or at data mining—”

“Yeah, I decided to start the month off strong by skipping all my classes.”

Justin sighed and crossed his arms. “Ambitious.”

“Shove it.”

“You good, Ayse? Skipping classes is some shit sophomore-year you would’ve done. No one needs more sophomore-year you.”

The girl pressed her lips into a thin line, mirroring his stance by crossing her arms. She could play this game.

“I’m _fine_.”

Justin squinted, leaning forward. “You don’t _look_ fine.”

“Maybe you should get your glasses fixed,” she said, nodding to the tape holding the sides of them together.

“Don’t deflect—”

“Oh, but that’s what I’m best at.”

He threw his hands up. “I’m just trying to help.”

Ayse took a deep breath and sighed.

“Yeah, I know.”

 _And you deserve better friends_.

She munched on a few more fistfuls of cereal, writing a few lines of notes onto her pad distractedly. What was she supposed to do? Explain to her sweetest, most pure friend— _he didn’t even drink!_ —that she was hopelessly, pathetically depressed because the sexy Dom at the BDSM sex club she went to didn’t want to fuck her anymore?

_I mean, god, it can’t get any sadder than that._

She especially wasn’t about to pour out details of her lurid sex life—or lack thereof—considering she was ninety-nine percent sure Justin secretly liked her. Or, at least, he had before she started partying. He had stuck around through it, though, which had to mean _something_.

 _What_ , exactly, she wasn’t sure; she also wasn’t about to find out.

“Well, if you want to talk—”

“I don’t.”

“But if you did—”

“I _don’t_.”

“Can’t you just accept help?”

“Nope,” she crunched into the piece of dehydrated plantain, “Can’t. Emotions are for ugly people.”

Justin visibly rolled his eyes, turning back to his own homework.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s me.”

* * *

“You going to career fair?”

Ayse twitches.

“Nah.”

“No?”

“No.”

“…Why not?”

She sighs, sets down her pen, and leans back in her chair. “First of all, you know that shit doesn’t mean anything. They’re just gonna look at our grades and who our parents are.” She swallows heavily. “Well, in your case, that is.”

Justin’s lower lip pulls into a frown. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“ _AndIalreadyreceivedanoffer_ —”

“What?”

 _Shit._ This, she’d been trying to avoid.

Justin was the harder working of the two; still, Ayse managed better grades. Despite the drinking, the sleeping in, and the lack of general responsibility, she somehow managed to take tests a bit better. It wasn’t a point of contention in their friendship—Justin was too nice for that. But she felt guilty nonetheless and tried to be conscious of the reality that they were going two very different ways in the First Order training program.

“Yeah, I—I—” she paused, leaning back to run a hand through her hair awkwardly. “Internship panned out.”

“Wait, wait wait wait—with high command?”

Ayse made a small noise of strangled acknowledgement in the back of her throat.

“But you hate those fuckers.”

“…Yep.”

Justin closed his notebook. “You think you’re gonna take it anyway.”

“Probably.”

“I thought you said you’d be selling your soul to the devil if—”

“Turns out the devil has free food and nice perks.”

Her friend only shrugged. “I mean, sure. I’m not, like, criticizing or anything. I just didn’t expect _you_ —I mean, you’re always so down-with-the-man—to like, y’know, end up working for the man.”

She frowned again. “Yeah, I know.” Then, softer, “I know. I feel you. I really do.”

A long moment of silence passed.

“I’m gonna, like, negotiate, though.”

“Will they do that?”

She shrugged. “Hope so. Figure if I am gonna sell out, I’m at least gonna wring it for everything its worth.”

Justin finished packing his belongings away into the standard-issue pack and slung it over his shoulder.

“Yeah… yeah, you do that.” He went to turn away, no doubt on his way to his next period class, when he stopped. Looking over his shoulder, he muttered, maybe half-jokingly, “Don’t forget about us little people when you’re kickin’ it with Ren, though.”

“I won’t.”

_Right?_

* * *

Ayse spends the rest of the morning steadfastly ignoring the three exams she needs to study for. Instead, she busies herself cleaning her tablet, watching banned holo-videos, and streaming foreign music. It’s very on-brand for her, she thinks, casting a regretful glance towards the stack of study guides and notes calling her name.

She sighs when she finally makes it to the command center, taking a detour into the bathroom before her shift. She stares into the mirror; a girl, tired and sunken, stares back at her. Deep, hard circles line her eyes, which are slightly pink themselves from the dryness of trying to stay awake. She blinks once, twice, and finds herself yawning.

_Shit._

She really needs to get better sleep medication.

Ayse strides onto the bridge with as much arrogance as she can muster, stopping only to cop a coffee that she still technically has no right to— ‘FULL TIME PERSONNEL ONLY’ reads a small label on the table, presumably put there after any one of her last raids.

She’s so distracted by feigning confidence that she misses the squeak of work boots that approach her.

“Are you absolutely impervious to rules?”

 _Oh, fuck_.

Ayse squeezes her eyes shut. No introduction is needed for the cold, mechanical voice—

“Wow,” she manages to say with a steadiness that surprises her, spinning on one heel, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, “so the Supreme Leader of the First Order has nothing better to do than guard snacks.”

There’s a long moment of silence. The cool, impersonal visor stares down at her. She returns her own icy glare, lips forming a thin line. This is the _last_ thing she needs right now—

“You don’t look well.”

And that—that knocks the wind out of her. She stares, a little open-mouthed, at her superior.

“Sorry?”

“You. Don’t. Look. Well.”

“I…” she raises one eyebrow, hesitation thick in her voice, “am fine.”

“Are you.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

_Is she?_

“I—” she hesitates, “think so.”

The face of his helmet rises, as though he’s looking over her shoulder or staring off into the distance. A stretch of silence punctuated only by his breathing passes between them.

“I see.”

“I… I have to get to work,” she remarks hurriedly, grabbing the cup of coffee and ducking under a thick arm that’s somehow managed to move to box her in—

“You’ll follow me to _Plutonium_ ,” the voice corrects brusquely, words returning to their usual clipped tone. “I believe you put in a negotiation request.”

* * *

Leather is supposed to absorb and reflect heat, but the leather beneath her seems to never warm to her skin. She shivers quietly in the conference room chair, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself—or to straight-up run, which crossed her mind more times than she cares to count.

“Sir, I—”

Leather-gloved hands flip through a stack of paperwork slowly, discarding sheets to the left and right when the man’s finished with them. She trails off, blinking at his brusqueness.

 _This was a bad idea_.

“What are your terms?”

“I—”

“Surely you have terms.”

“I… have terms.”

He gestures once with his right hand, lazily, as though she’s a minor inconvenience he’d very much like to dispatch sooner than later.

“And those are…”

Bored. Flippant. He'd rather be anywhere else.

“Base salary started at one hundred and ten thousand credits. Commensurate with my skills and experience, I think one hundred and twenty would be—”

“Fine.”

Ayse opens her mouth, then closes it. She repeats the action twice more, one eyebrow quirked unconsciously.

“I… sorry?”

“Fine.”

“I mean, I have _reasons_ —”

“I don’t care to hear them.”

Her eyes flicker around the room as she assesses exactly where the hidden camera is for the inevitable ‘kidding!’ that must be coming. She takes an awkward sip of her coffee; this is not how she imagined this going: not in the least.

“I was offered one hundred and twenty in _First Order Group_ stock. I think one hundred and fifty is—”

“One hundred twenty-five.”

Her nostrils flare at being cut-off; she squares her shoulders.

“One hundred and forty-five.”

“One hundred and thirty, and you’ll be bumped one promotion level to start.”

She swallows a mouthful of her drink; it burns on the way down.

“Fine.”

“Fine. Is there anything else?”

_Are you done bothering me?_

“I want a signing bonus.”

The visor, which had been scanning something written on the paper in front of him, tilts upwards.

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why?”

She gestures her hands, trying to put words to what she feels should be obvious, “Uh, fair, uh, compensation—”

“I mean,” he says slowly, like she's stupid, “ _what is the intended use_? Typically, personnel requiring signing bonuses have dependents, partners that need to relocate from other bases—” A pregnant pause follows. “Are you partnered, Ms. Holdeag?”

Ayse swallows the burning urge to tell him to _fuck off_ , that it’s _none of his business_ —

“No, Sir.”

“I didn’t think so.”

And what was _that_ supposed to mean?

She opens her mouth to argue—

“Twenty-five,” he cuts across her.

“Thousand?”

“Thousand.”

She folds her arms. _Fine, I'll play._

“Fifty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Fine.”

“Are you quite done now?”

Her nostrils flare again; she scoots uncomfortably in her chair. She knows she shouldn’t—this is her boss’ boss’ boss, the big boss, and he’s just given her what she wants—but she can’t help herself.

“That will be all,” she manages, tersely.

“You’ll start Monday.”

She says nothing, finally giving into the urge to rub up and down her arms, which have prickled with goosebumps. Maybe it’s a defensive mechanism from somewhere deep within her hindbrain; maybe she’s just cold.

She watches as the man stands—taller than she always seems to remember—and strides smoothly to the blaster door, which moves aside at one of his telepathic commands because of course it does.

When he speaks, a strange sensation travels up the length of her spine.

“And Ms. Holdeag, go home. You need rest.”

He sweeps out of the room and she swears— _swears_ —that she’s heard that tone before.


	10. Chapter 10

Rhea shivered. The metallic deep-green bikini she wore left little to the imagination and even less material to cover her skin, which prickled up into small goosebumps and folded into little rolls across her stomach when she knelt.

She shivered again.

Master Cullen’s shoes stopped in front of her, brown and oddly shiny beneath her. He waited, pointedly, until the other trainee had left the locker room, out of hearing range. She was grateful; she didn’t want anyone else to overhear whatever was coming next.

“No assignment.”

Rhea frowned; her eyebrows knit together when she looked up.

“Sorry?”

She’d expected a reprimand, maybe expected to be let go. Nothing—no assignment at all—was, maybe, even worse: disappointment and punishment all wrapped into one.

Cullen swallowed, noticeably forcing the hints of sympathy off his angular face. “I can’t just assign you to someone else, Rhea. You know that. That’s not how this works.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

“Really? Is that what you want to do? Have an attitude?” his voice rose; he shoved his hands into his pockets, squaring off his shoulders.

She stayed silent for a long moment. “No,” she murmured, voice cracking on the singular word.

The Dom above her drew out a long breath. “You have to complete your assignments unless there’s legitimate cause for the use of a safe-word. Is there?”

She shook her head.

“You just don’t want to.”

She shrugged. That wasn’t it.

“You’re just afraid.”

She frowned.

Cullen crossed his arms somewhere above her; she heard another sigh. “I know,” he said, no doubt trying to sound gentle. It didn’t quite translate, but she could appreciate the attempt, “But no one here is going to force you into anything. You have to show us what you want. You have to ask for it.”

Rhea only stared at her hands.

“There are no passive participants here, Rhea.”

She scrunched up her nose and forced little tears back. “Yeah,” she breathed, “I know. I know.”

“So make it right.”

“I don’t know how,” she murmured, softly, as she started picking at the skin around a nailbed.

“Ask him, then.”

“I just don’t understand why I have to partner up with Doms I don’t like when—”

“But you _do_ —”

“—when we could just partner up and call it a day.”

The man above her froze instantly, just as fast as something twisted within her own belly.

_Shit._

“I’m sorry. That was—that was—unfair.”

Cullen remained silent for several long moments; Rhea didn’t dare cast a glance upwards. She didn’t need to see the struggle written into his features, didn’t want to see the conflict she’d created.

“Yes,” he said coolly, “It was.”

* * *

Rhea took the last sip of an amaretto sour that, while made perfectly, didn’t taste sweet at all. She pushed the drink away, wrapped her arms around herself, and groaned.

He— _he_ —sat a few yards away from the bar, lounging in one of the leather armchairs just as he’d done the week before. And, just as the week before, a friendly Dom sat across from him. She’d been waiting for the other to leave, to give her a chance alone with him, but no opportunity came. It seemed the men were intent on chatting forever.

She didn’t allow herself to glance in the bartender’s direction: it wouldn’t be fair to him.

Sighing, she plucked a cherry from its stem. At least she had one outstanding talent: pissing _everyone_ off.

“Master Cullen,” she called, fixing her eyes firmly to her coaster.

The man lumbered over—or, at least, it sounded that way—and she twirled the stem between her fingers.

“I need _that drink_ again,” she nodded her head in the direction of _him_ , “and something for the, ah, gentleman across from him.”

He didn’t reply; she didn’t spend the effort to analyze just how angry, annoyed, or whatever else the Dom in front of her was. Not now; she had a mission.

* * *

She stopped just short of the row of chairs, one hand grasping a bottle of amber liquid resting in a glass, the other clutching a bottle of water. She waited, as etiquette dictated, until the Doms glanced up and acknowledged her.

“Sir," she nodded to the unfamiliar Dom. Then, slower, "Sir."

She hesitated, then regrouped with a hard swallow.

"I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said, stepping forward with faux confidence to hand the bottle to the other man. He leaned back slightly in his seat, crossed his long legs at the ankles. He resembled so many others in the club; muscles on the larger side, leathers parted across his chest. She might have drunken in his features another time, but not now.

When he grasped the bottle, he raised one arched brow at the Dom across from him. _This your problem?_

Rhea shivered in place, her feet seeming to move of their own will beneath her. She turned, slowly, and stared dumbly at him. The unfamiliar Dom’s face was all hard lines and tanned skin—but he, _he_ was different somehow, narrower and more angular.

Where leather often seemed the dress code, he once again eschewed any semblance of a normal Dom’s wardrobe, instead donning another dark sweater. It fit over his body in a way that only seemed to emphasize his broadness. He lacked the performative musculature of the other yet seemed somehow seemed to exude more power.

She said the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re clean shaven today.”

Dark eyes fixed on hers; he stared back, unimpressed. All-business and impersonal. _Just like last time._

The tension within her grew. She shuffled slightly, hooking her fingers together on instinct.

“I’m… sorry. I came to apologize,” she explained with a vague gesture.

He said nothing. He only stared, impassively, like she hadn’t yet said the right thing.

“Master Cullen told me to bring you this,” she held out the beer and a glass. “Um, like a peace offering, I guess.”

Master Ben didn’t glance down at the drink.

“Do you think this is how you apologize?”

It would have sounded harsh to an objective listener—and there was certainly a hard edge to it. But there, underneath it all, there was a softer suggestion. 

“I—” she swallowed, cursing her tendency to start crying at inopportune times. She forced the wave of tears that threatened back and shook her head. “I don’t really know.”

It came out as barely a whisper

Maybe that’s what he had been waiting for.

After the briefest grimace, he spread his legs somewhat, motioned her to him with two fingers, then pointed at the ground between them.

She hardly stopped to think.

When she was situated between his knees, wondering vaguely if she was about to bumble through an overly emotional blowjob, he leaned forward. Wrists planted on his knees, arching above her, he spoke.

“Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

It was a command, clear as day, but spoken only for her ears. Firm, but maybe smattered with a hint of gentleness, like he truly meant to guide her.

She looked up at him, lips parted slightly, and felt the air leaving her lungs.

“I should have come to you when told," she started, continuing to choke back the tears she hated, trying desperately to keep the incoming monologue comprehensible. "I wish I had come to you when told. I—I didn’t mean to— _well I did, in the moment, but_ —” she paused, one traitorous tear escaping and streaking down her cheek. “I don’t really want to waste your time, or anyone else’s. Or even my own. It feels pretty awful, and I—” she paused to choke down a breath, “I know you’re not interested anymore, and I understand that. There are consequences. But, for whatever little it's worth, I've learned my lesson.”

She let a beat pass: sniffles pathetically. “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

He waited a moment, then raised his right hand to the side of her face; his thumb brushed the tear streak away.

“I think so.” He glanced up, now stroking idly at her cheek. “Seems sincere enough to me, mhm?”

Part of her resented how she pressed into his touch—how his approval felt so very needed.

“Seems to be,” the nameless Dom behind her confirmed, “and sweet.”

A wry smile crossed Master Ben’s face: knowing with a dash of self-righteous arrogance. “She can be.”

“What’d she do, anyway?”

“Oh,” Ben murmured, leaning back a bit into his normal sitting position, “just a routine issue. Still learning to take direction.”

He took the bottle and glass from her, pouring out a generous amount of the liquid. Then he handed the bottle, still half full, back to her.

Rhea eyed his cupholder; he eyed her right back. She forced the impulse to point out that she was a person, not a piece of furniture, and instead took the glass. Now isn't the best time to start another fight.

When she took it, settling it between her knees, he snaked the fingers of one hand into her hair. He pulled her to the side, casually, decisively, until her cheek rested against the fabric covering his thigh.

“And how’s your sub, Max? Jenna, right?”

She noted a hum from behind her. “Yeah. She’s good; just a little sore, getting sick all the time right now.”

“Sorry to hear. Is she ill?”

“Oh—we’re pregnant.”

She watched, vaguely, sideways, as the Dom above her took a drink in her periphery. She pressed her eyes closed; it was easier to cope with being told what to do—and liking it—if she didn’t think about it too hard.

“Intentional, I assume.”

The man—Max—laughed, warm and rich.

“Very.”

“Congrats, then.”

“And you? She yours?”

It was Ben's turn to hum.

“She is for tonight.”

She quickly quashes her inner pang of desire for a more committal response.

His thumb stroked over her temple; she found herself having to stiffen a dumb little smile that had threatened to form on her lips. A quiet little voice in her head objected to the growing sense of warmth and obedience. She yawned, instead turning into the floating feeling that was growing within her—so much so that the conversation ebbed and flowed around her in her dazed state. When the other man got up and said his goodbyes some time later, she barely even noticed.

“Up,” the Dom above her commanded softly.

She blinked up at him.

_Hm?_

"Stand up," he repeated, slightly louder this time, but luckily with no hint of anger.

She pushed herself to her feet slowly, steadily, taking care not to sway on her feet, not to give him the satisfaction.

The feeling of grogginess lingered heavy.

Master Ben hooked one long finger into the string of her bottoms.

“Is this for me?”

Rhea swayed just a little in her spot, searching her mind for the right answer. “I’ve been trying to... wear less. Like you said to.”

He made a noise of approval somewhere deep in his throat. It didn’t help resolve the conflict within her. “Good.”

He patted his lap. “Lay down across me.”

And so she did; she sat in his lap with a willingness that a deep—and ignored—part of her objected to strongly. He helped her maneuver so her head rested on one arm of the chair, her legs stretching out beyond the other.

“There we go,” he said, one large hand stretching out across her stomach. His skin felt warm on hers, his touch somehow possessive and protective in one. Even the coarse material of his jeans managed to feel soft against her skin. His usual scent—myrrh mixed with something deeper—seemed ten times amplified like this, washing over her and lulling her into complacency. Smells nice.

“I want you to show me those pretty breasts.”

She blinked.

“Sir?”

“The top. It comes off.”

She squirmed; her anxiety had spiked. “I’m not really sensitive—”

“Shhh.”

She fell quiet.

“I don’t want that mouth to open unless I’ve asked for your opinion or unless you’re sucking my cock." A fierce blush heated her cheeks. "Understand?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Go on, then.”

She shimmied her hands behind her back, undoing the tie that held her top in place. She shirked it, tossing it somewhere to the side, pressing her eyes closed.

“Your eyes belong on me.”

He stroked over the skin of her stomach once, twice, and murmured his approval when she forced herself to obey. His darker eyes fell on her lighter ones: within them, an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Her muscles relaxed a little, one by one, slowly, in his grasp.

“There we go,” he repeated, softly, as if he wasn’t entirely talking to her. “Good.”

He swept one large palm up her chest, between her breasts, across her sternum. Then, lightly, almost as if he wasn’t there at all, he brushed over a nipple.

She found out that less was truly more.

“Shhh, shhh. I want you to be still for me.”

So she listened to the sound of her own breathing, its rhythmic swell becoming faster. She watched as her nipples pebbled—offering the submission she couldn’t quite muster herself—as he brushed featherlight, barely touching, over them.

“Pretty little thing. So hard to handle. But not like this.”

His other hand snaked under her back to curl around her side, warm and somehow comforting. He pulled her closer to him, flush against his chest.

Her head lulled to the side and, against her better judgement, she found herself nuzzling into the warm fabric of his shirt, a little open-mouthed.

“Just a scared little rabbit underneath that lion’s facade, aren’t you?” he asked at half-volume, as though he might disturb something delicate if he raised his voice beyond a murmur. It sounded even more dulcet than usual—and deeper. Definitely deeper than she remembered—

“Rhea? Do you know your safewords?”

She turned, slightly, and stared up at him. Then, a little wide-eyed, she nodded.

“I want you to tell me.”

“’Red’ for stop. ‘Yellow’ or ‘Mercy’ to slow down.”

He didn’t smile, though the skin around his eyes seemed to crinkle slightly. “Good,” he murmured. He sounded like he meant it. She blinked again, drowsily, happy to drown in the feeling of approval. “I want you to use them if you need them.”

“Sure.” Master Ben raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Sir.”

“This,” he started softly, spreading his fingers out across her side. Meanwhile, the knuckles of his other hand trailed down her stomach. “Is mine.”

She blinked again, confused in the split second before his hand opened.

His palm cupped between her legs. Firmly.

“Isn’t it, Rhea?”

She felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

“Yes.” she said shakily, barely a whisper.

“Tell me what’s mine.”

She swallowed. Hard. Her eyes darted away before dashing back. “My cunt.”

“Really.”

It wasn’t a question—she could tell it wasn’t. His fingers slipped past the flimsy material of her bikini and slid, two of them, between her folds to her clit. He made a noise low in his throat and began rubbing little circles that all but confirmed he’d done this many, many times before.

“That’s a filthy word for a little girl to use. But then you’re not that innocent, are you? No,” he answered himself, locking his eyes on hers, “You’re a conflicted little slut.”

She didn’t stop to think about the comment—she wasn’t even sure she could—and instead found herself agreeing easily, tilting her hips up in his hand.

“Don’t worry,” he breathed a little dangerously, “I like little sluts. Especially when they’re squirming in my lap, on their best behavior for me.”

And that— _that_ was it. The moan she’d been so intent on stifling slipped out.

And this time— _this_ time he smiled.

“Good girl.”

The arm holding her waist pulled free; she whimpered at the loss of touch. A chorus of ‘it’s okay, relax’ rained over her, a throw pillow from behind him pressing coolly into her back.

“It’s alright,” he reassured her, “because now I can do this.”

Her eyebrow arched with the silent question just as his dominant hand moved to her clit, freeing his left to travel down, down, down, until his middle finger pressed into her entrance and—

Another groan escaped her lips, accompanying the buck of her hips as he slid into her, thicker than she thought a single finger could feel.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly what I intend to do.”

His right hand rubbed circles into her clit with the constant rhythm she needed to—to—

“I’m going to fingerfuck this tight little pussy until you come in my lap.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I might need to wash that mouth out, too.”

She felt his gaze on her through it all—when he twisted within her, when he started pumping in and out.

“ _God—_ ”

A second finger slipped into her, easier than she expected.

“Do you get this wet for every man you’re with?”

She stared dumbly, open-mouthed and panting, and frowned. She didn't know what to say.

Something in his jaw jumped. "Just me?" 

He didn’t say it, but she _felt_ his approval. Her head rolled back, toes curling with the growing need to come undone.

His fingers curled within her, pressing against something soft and fleshy she wasn’t sure she had ever found before.

She cried out; he only pressed another finger into her—working through the resistance that met him at first—until it too curled against the spot. He pumped faster, setting a you-will-come-now pace that part of her noted could only come from years of experience—

“Fuck, _fuck_ , I—”

“Come.” It was an order. She wouldn’t doubt it for a second. “Now.”

She wasn’t sure if he’d simply gotten lucky with the timing, but she also didn’t care. She moaned, much more loudly than she would’ve preferred, and spasmed around his fingers.

“Fuck,” it was his turn to hiss, “Good girl. Little vice-grip pussy.”

Her hips shuddered a few seconds longer, bucking up into his hand, desperate to draw him in deeper. Then she came, slowly, back down to earth, each muscle tingling with fatigue.

She waited for the accompanying sleepiness to set in. It didn’t come.

Instead, as quiet moments passed, punctuated by their own breathing, a heavy weight settled on her chest.

The zing of panic started to rush through her veins.

Everyone had seen that. He’d seen that. She was a mess; she’d drawn her legs up and _whined_ for him.

She was sure she would die.

“Welp,” she said, hoping to sound confident as she pushed herself up quickly, reversing directions faster than she could really process it. “Thanks, bud. It’s been real—”

One large hand cut her speech short, closing around her shoulder and pushing her back down.

“Nice try.”

“I’m not the aftercare type.”

The edges of his lips turned down.

“You’re also not the good-at-lying type.”

“I’d prefer not to be here.”

“I know,” he said simply. “Austin,” he added, gesturing to the passing trainee, “I need two waters and a blanket.”

She listened idly as the sub bowed with overly-submissive zeal and scampered off. She rolled her eyes. _I'm not like that._

A long moment of tense silence passed. Rhea eyed the door across the room conspicuously, trying to work out whether she would win a sprint of that distance—

“It’s normal to get a little jumpy your first time, you know. It’ll be better for both of us if you come down here, where I can watch you.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

The man sighed. “Definitely not the good-at-lying type.”

Austin returned with a gray, weighted blanket that the Dom above her— _Master Ben_ , her brain supplied unhelpfully—wrapped around her curves. She frowned, dramatic as she could manage, trying to resist the urge to snuggle happily.

“I enjoyed that,” the Dom said simply, cracking the seal of her bottle of water for her.

“I’m sure you did.”

She drank, only barely willing to admit she was parched, and then pressed her eyes closed defiantly.

She ignored the hand that moved to rest on her calf like he owned the skin there.

She _especially_ ignored the notes of earth and citrus that drifted towards her every time he sipped his IPA.

Bastard.


	11. Glances

Ayse wakes up early that morning to beat the rush of standard shift workers commuting to their respective posts. The High Command Bridge is always staffed—24/7, naturally, but also because some people are bootlicking jackoffs who put in long, performative hours—but she’s happy to find that most of the staff she works with on a regular basis hasn’t arrived yet. She slinks, quietly, dragging her feet a bit to avoid making noise as she traverses the red-and-black striped bridge and hops down into the pit where her workstation sits.

The monitors look different like this, as a full-time employee. The blinking lights flash all the same; hurried keystrokes on mechanical keyboard interrupt her thoughts as they always do. Where there was some majesty before, though, there is little now. This is her view, the place of her dull work slog, for the foreseeable future—maybe even the next forty-five years or so if she’s lucky.

_Hmphf._

_"Luck."_

She should feel honored, everyone says, to have a post like this. She should feel honored to have the opportunity to be excused early from most of the remaining schooling which, honestly, was mostly paper-pushing to prove you could hold down a job anyway. She blanches, though, and swats away a stack of papers dismissively. Someone should learn to keep their trash on someone else's desk.

Justin and the rest of her peers will be stuck in lectures for the better part of a year. Many of them will work harder than her, for less eventual money, for little status and influence and comfort, and she knows it. It isn’t fair—but then little within the First Order is, really. She supposes it’s not worth agonizing over something she can’t change; the chips fell, and she’s here now.

She sits, swivels in her chair, wrinkles her nose.

Turns out the best job for a new engineering graduate doesn’t feel so wonderful.

* * *

Ayse is three hours into scrolling through electronic mails and notices, reading intra-Order news, and generally procrastinating on her monitor-connected datapad when Captain Peavey finally shows.

“Welcome,” he says, a little too happily for her tastes, slapping the back of her chair. “You must be excited.”

“Very,” she says dryly.

He seems to selectively ignore her tone.

“Well, good. Are you done with the paperwork?”

Her brows knit together slightly.

“Paperwork?”

“Yes, the paperwork I left on your desk. Ah, here,” he says, pushing the stack from the edge of her desk to its center. “The General needs these scanned into the e-file system.”

“…Isn’t there an administrative assistant who can do that?”

“Ayse,” he sighs, “It’s your first day. Be grateful and pay your dues like the rest of us.”

She frowns, dumbfounded and indignant. “I went to engineering school, and I’m _expensive_ —”

That’s the first time she feels it, right in the middle of that sentence: eyes. Someone is absolutely, undeniably staring at her, and somehow she can feel the full weight of it settle on her shoulders.

“…yeah,” she recovers, poorly, ignoring the quizzical look on her immediate boss’ face, “sure.”

Peavey seems to quietly count his blessings, choosing to walk to his station instead of pressing his luck any further. As soon he drops down into the adjacent pit, removing her from his line of sight, she swivels around quickly. She scans her right, then her left. She turns back around and scans the forefront of the Bridge, the wide expanse of windows which stretch from nearly floor to ceiling. The feeling fades.

A group of four officers stand there, talking—no, conspiring, probably. Next to them, another two officers, one of whom gestures out one of the windows, likely at some interesting rock or another. More officers, a guard, _more_ officers. She nearly writes it off when she notices him, simultaneously hulking and yet somehow barely noticeable in his stillness, standing in the far-right corner. He wears no cape to billow behind him today, only a black tunic, black work pants, black special-issue work boots. The usual.

His hands are clasped in front of him. He stands with his back turned to the bridge, helmet’s eyepiece seemingly gazing at the window.

She stares for a long moment, briefly suspicious, before gathering her bearings again.

_Whatever._

_It was nothing._

She picks up the large stack of papers to be— _eyeroll_ —“scanned”, and begins hauling them up the slope which leads out of the pit and onto the main floor of the Bridge.

She takes a right, ignoring Ren as she usually ignores any of the obnoxious bigwigs, and strides over to one of the multi-purpose scanning stations. Codes, employee IDs: you name it, it can scan it.

The underlying technology may be cool—computer vision is a hard problem—but this, of course, is a menial task, likely designed to get under her skin, to give her a 'warm' welcome.

_Fuckers._

She lays the top sheet of paper down, lets it scan once-over, flips it.

Lay it down, scan, flip.

Down, scan, flip.

Some repeats this mind-numbing process bitterly for some hundred repetitions when she feels it begin again, same as the last time.

She’s being watched—she _knows_ it!

She whips her head to the left, checking over her shoulder, and then, slower, partially in disbelief, to her right.

Kylo Ren has turned around and, she swears, his helmet stares directly at her. She looks to her left again, quick as she can, checking if there might be someone important entering the bridge from the passageway nearby.

She sees nothing but an empty, black hallway.

Ayse looks down at the now triple-scanned page, watching it scan yet again as she gathers breath, and turns to face the man whose eyes seem to burn into her.

He doesn’t look away. Neither does she.

She holds what she assumes must be his gaze for a long, long moment—long past the point of any modicum of comfort, long past the point where she knows she should look away.

Ren takes a step forward, towards her, and—

“Ayse, here, take these papers too. Just found them leftover from the audit logs from last week. You can scan these as well.”

She jumps, swivels to her left, and finds herself face-to-face with Peavey again.

“Right, yes,” she murmurs, distractedly, turning to look back at the spot where he stood, “will do.”

Kylo Ren is gone, likely through the door adjacent to him, and so too the uncomfortable feeling of being watched dissipates.

“What are you looking at,” Peavey asks, slight annoyance obvious in his voice. “It’s your first day, Ayse, and already you seem so distracted.”

“—I—,” she stammers, glancing between her boss and the spot. Her brows knit together in dual confusion and anger. “He’s staring at me.”

“Who is staring?”

“…the Supreme Leader.”

A beat passes before Peavy chuckles. “I mean no offense, Ayse, but the Supreme Leader hardly has time to go around just 'staring' at his subordinates. A very junior subordinate, at that.”

She turns her body to level with him. “It happened twice now. And I can feel it: he’s _staring_ at me.”

Peavey raises his eyebrows as if she’s crazy, lets out a brief sigh. “Get back to your work, Ayse. It’s waiting for you, and you’re wasting computational power on that page. Must be burning hot by now.”

She won’t be gaslight, she promises herself as she turns back to her work.

She removes the page, scalding hot now, with a hiss.

Lay down, scan, flip. 

Down, scan, flip.

Kylo Ren is _fucking staring_ at her.

* * *

There’s a million reasons Kylo Ren might be staring at her, the calmer half of her brain decides, but _every single one of them_ pisses her off.

_It’s her first day and he wants to intimidate her._

_There’s something on her face that no one’s told her about (she checked.)_

_She might be his next random-rage victim._

_He’s suddenly noticed that she’s ugly and now he can’t look away._

_He’s just a straight-up dickhead._

Something about being stared at makes her seethe. _Leave me alone, you fucker,_ she thinks. _You have tantrums to throw._ Then, more bitterly, _And I have scans to file._

Ayse periodically scans the Bridge, no doubt looking inexplicably paranoid, then sits down again.

She continues this pattern for much of the rest of the day. She writes a quick script to autonomously file all seven-hundred-and-twenty-eight scans into their respective root folders, taking the time to kick back, cross her arms, stare at the ceiling.

_Administrative tasks, huh?_

Her hair falls back; she lets it dangle off the head rest of the chair in messy waves, closing her eyes for a second.

When she comes back to and the files are all done uploading, she marks the task ‘completed’ in a small work journal she keeps for herself. _Always document what you do_ , she believes, _so that there’s a record and you can argue for proper credit later if needed_.

She switches tabs and picks up where she left off on intra-Order news.

There’s a sale on personal data pads; Cantina #54 has cherry slushies now— _exciting_ —and Cantina #12 is doing a karaoke night, which she thinks is a bit weird for an activity in the First Order, but _alright_.

When she exhausts the news as a means of entertainment, she starts actually scrolling through her new work portal. She takes note of the few new access rights she’s been granted: definitely something to investigate more.

Clicking one, she browses through a few layers of folders until she finds a relatively exposed database.

_The v-net settings are all wrong here._

_Hm._

A little code injection, a little developer console editing, and she’ll likely be well on her way to exposing some critical security vulnerabilities. She jots the reference values down, hoping it’ll perhaps be something she can bring to the higher-ups to get out doing stupid shit—

“Ah, Ayse,” Peavey interrupts, “You’ve gotten through the papers?”

She sits up, corrects her posture a bit.

“Mhm hm. All scanned and filed to their folders for,” she waves her hand lazily, “whatever use.”

“Great. Well, you can open the active bug query here,” he leans across the desk, types in an abbreviated address, and bookmarks the full page for her, “and pick up some items. These all need to be resolved in these next fourteen cycles.”

Rudimentary bug work. _Slog._

“Sure,” she grumbles, more to herself than to her manager, and he drums on about paying dues, how bug fixing is a great way to ramp up on the existing technology, _blah blah blah_. She tunes out; the existing technology is _shit_ anyway.

It happens a few minutes after, several bars into whatever Peavey’s lecturing about this time: the pain again.

A shiver at the back of the neck; a point on her shoulder which goes hot; a sense of uneasiness, of heaviness in her lungs.

“He’s doing it again.”

“—I? _Ayse,_ as I was saying—”

“Ren. He’s staring at me again,” she says, unmoving, glued to her seat lest she tip Ren off.

“Really, you need to focus. And I was _saying_ —”

The pressure feels heavier now that she’s aware of it. She stands suddenly, alarming Peavey, and whips around.

He’s there— _of course he’s there_ —several meters back, next to a small mapping table of holo-projector.

Staring at her.

“That’s it,” she says through her teeth, seething. She pushes by Peavey and squeezes around the backs of chairs in her workstation row.

“Ayse—stop—”

She dodges Peavey’s grasp.

“Don’t—"

If you can’t save yourself at someone else, at least save yourself—and that’s exactly what Peavey does. He hastily makes for a seat in front of the last workstation in the aisle, plops down, and pretends to look spontaneously _very_ busy.

Anger bubbles within her as she closes the space between her and Ren.

There might be appropriate things to say in this situation. ‘May I help you, My Lord?’, for instance. She might have even been able to get away with a ‘Sir, do you need something from me?’

She chooses neither of those options.

“Didn’t anyone teach you that it’s rude to stare?”

She tries to say it low enough that she won’t shock half the Bridge, but she’s not sure she’s controlled her anger well enough.

Her chest rises and falls; fists squeeze at her sides.

Kylo Ren’s visor tilts down so his gaze matches her height.

Then comes an audible noise of warped displeasure, something between a sigh and an exasperated grown, like she’s a terrible misbehaving child that must be put in a time-out corner again.

“I am sure this will shock you, Ms. Holdeag, but not everything is about you.”

“Bullshit,” she hisses, lowly, literally through her teeth this time, “You are _staring_ at me. I can _feel_ it.”

An amused puff makes its way out of the vocoder that changes the real creature’s voice.

She waits for more—for an explanation—but none comes.

Ren turns his body slightly, dismissively, looking between a paper in his hand and the holo of a topographical surface: a mountain somewhere.

She cranes her neck, this time sure to lower her voice.

Ayse leans in.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you saw something you liked.”

It’s really, _really_ not what you say to your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss—to the leader of a ruthless and insanely powerful militia—and she absolutely knows it.

Her body screams with victory nonetheless.

The knuckles of her fisted hand go white.

Kylo Ren is still for a long moment. He draws up to his full height—once again taller than she remembered—and turns, slowly, deadly, squaring off his shoulders. Broad, _broad_ shoulders—

“And,” she speaks, quickly, immediately aware of the imminent danger. She hopes she might cut off his opportunity to say something, “whoever wrote that report for you is a fucking idiot.”

She points hastily to a large graph, labelled _Figure 1_ , and its caption.

“The author even gives values for the vector field shown, but the caption claims that the angular momentum of the vortex at that coordinate can’t be approximated. That’s wrong and—” she emerges for air, “—should be able to be calculated precisely. The author just needs to do a few simple partial derivatives, keeping in line with Stokes’ Theorem. This is really basic calculus. There’s no excuse for missing this.”

She folds her arms, half in an unconscious gesture of protectiveness, and nods to the highlighted portion of the topography shown by the hologram.

“They can similarly find the gradient over that topological range by the same theorem.”

She pauses.

“So.”

Ayse pauses again. A beat passes. She takes a breath.

“So you’re welcome.”

She turns on one heel, nose held far higher than she has any right to, and strides—confidently, she hopes—across the threshold of the bridge.

She expects the tight grip of a hand, or perhaps to be zapped into the next century with the force. She might even understand blaster fire.

Nothing comes.

She refuses to look behind her, refuses to act anything less than unflappable. She descends the slope into her pit slowly, careful with her footing as her whole body starts to shake, and moves to the back row to reclaim her seat.

As the approaches the first chair in the aisle, she forces herself to look up.

Kylo Ren is gone.

“The next time you feel like committing suicide in spectacular fashion,” Peavey hisses in near-hysterics as she scoots by, “do me a favor and jump off the High Command staircase instead. It would be cleaner for everyone.”

Ayse chews on her cheek as she sits down.

_Noted._


	12. Small Battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a niche audience, but it really means so much that some of you seem to actually know this fic (and some of my others!) better than I do. The person who said XYZ was like Chapter 7 of Mercurial made me actually ascend. I literally had to go check wtf was in Chapter 7 of my own fic.
> 
> Anyway, I die. It means a lot. Thanks so much for reading.

Rhea blanches a bit as Master Cullen travels down the line, inspecting each trainee. He stops for a few seconds before each one, greeting them, offering corrections to posture or outfits where needed.

She bites down on her tongue, taking a glace down at her own. Brown latex cinched a bit at the waist, the minidress stops just below her ass in ruffles that span the circumference of her thighs.

She’s not sure she’ll get away with it; latex is often—but not exclusively—worn by dommes. To be fair, she also hopes someone will peel her out of it, and fast: it is _hot_ inside. Beneath, she wears a set—and she’s proud of that, because _rare_ are the days she matches her underwear—that wraps her breasts and hips over in black, ribbon-like, faux-silk material. Strategic cut-outs in both her top and bottoms skirt the edge of a wardrobe malfunction.

At this club, she bets nobody would mind.

Master Cullen finally reaches her, does his customary once-over. He’s wearing shined shoes today, as he often does. She likes them. He looks—

“Little conservative, maybe, don’t you think?”

She glances up at him.

It’s hard to be feisty with him.

“Sir, I can barely _breathe_.”

He smirks a little, snorts. “Fine, then. I’ll let it go. Beauty is pain, I suppose.”

“There’s also a zipper.”

“Ah. So there is. And under?”

“Bra and panties, Sir. If anyone truly objects.”

He nods now, shrugs his shoulders. “Considerate enough, then. Good girl.”

She bites back a wider smile but laps up the praise.

“You’ll scene with Master Ben tonight. He’s DMing until 21:00 in the Fixtures room.”

“I—” Rhea’s brows knit together in confusion. “I just scened with him last week, Sir.”

Cullen raises an eyebrow. “Scened, or played with?”

“I—” she frowns. “...played with.”

“Well he has a formal scene planned for you.”

She grinds her jaw, looks to her right periphery and back.

He adopts a stricter tone. “Will that be an issue, trainee?”

Her eyebrows jump, but she forces the rest of her annoyance down: not worth pushing it when the nicest Dom in the club isn’t even using her name anymore.

“No, Master Cullen.”

He stares at her for a long moment.

“I should hope not.”

He turns, duties in the inspection line fulfilled, and makes his way to his usual post at the bar.

She wrinkles her nose once while he has his back turned.

_Shit._

* * *

She quickly finds herself in an uncomfortably familiar situation. He stands casually against the wall of the Fixtures room, hands in the pockets of dark pants which cover the upper portions of what she assumes must be boots. Again he wears a dark blue— _black?_ —jacket, this time over a heathered grey shirt.

He scans the room periodically, again and again, eyes resting dutifully on each scene for a few seconds while he confirms everything is going well.

Rhea is sure he must have noticed her by now; he’s nothing if not perceptive.

She forces herself to stalk over: making him wait will probably only end worse for her.

She slows down as she nears him, shuffles more nervously than she’d like to one of his sides.

“Sir.”

A second passes before he nods. He doesn’t look down at her.

She ignores the pang of disappointment.

“Your hair looks… fluffy… today.”

That, unsurprisingly, gets her the attention she wants. He turns his head, slowly, and cocks it to one side. His eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“Are you always going to open with a comment on my physical appearance, Rhea? Perhaps I should bring a journal to document your observations. Last week I was, what, _clean-shaven_? And this week I am _fluffy_.” He waits a beat. “How illuminating.”

_Okay, you sarcastic piece of shit._

Little bubbles of anger start to boil up in her. She tries to control the wicking flames from burning out of control.

“They were both compliments, Sir.”

“Were they.”

She squares her jaw. _Fine, then._

“Yes. If I were to _make observations_ , I would point out how your huge ears might cause you to float away with a strong gust of wind.”

Master Ben turns, still deathly slow, completely in control. He presses on either side of her throat with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, firm enough that she can hear her blood rushing in her ears.

“’ _All the better to hear you with, my dear.’_ You’ll be very happy to know that my ears have been remarked upon my entire life and, as such, I am immune to comments about them.”

She squirms slightly in his grasp, tries for air in a pathetic breath that presents more as a wheeze.

“What do people make fun of _you_ for, Rhea? Being insufferably rude, maybe?” He lets her throat go. Her blood rushes. “You’re very lucky that breathplay is dangerous.”

Little tears sting her eyes.

“Just choke me out and say I have no friends already.”

The Dom breathes in, then out, in a long breath. He scans the room again.

She slumps a little against the wall, dejected.

“I _want_ to scene, yet you seem completely unwilling to cooperate. Perhaps I disgust you.”

She wipes the _stupid, stupid_ tears from her waterlines before they can roll down her cheeks.

“You don’t,” she says, swallowing back the spit which made it sound more like a sob. “I don’t even dislike your ears.”

She thinks, vaguely, that she sees a smirk appear and vanish just as fast.

_Imagining things._

He waits a long moment before speaking.

“Compliments from submissive to Dominant are usually given a bit less casually and a bit more sincerely around here.”

Rhea battles the strong urge to fold her arms.

“Fine. You look _fucking hot_ today, like you usually do, but like _especially so_ right now.” She wraps her fingers into Okay signs to punctuate her point. “And I’m sorry that my hair will never be as fucking perfect as yours, and that I’ll never be as fucking polished or restrained or suave.”

She folds her arms.

He stares for a long moment. She wants to look away from the intense brown stare but finds she can’t.

“You know,” he starts, “save for the language and the inappropriate aggression, it’s not a terrible attempt. I’ll give it a 5.5/10 and round up to a 6 for calling me ‘hot.’ A 60% is a passing mark, isn’t it? A D- but passing nevertheless.”

She sniffles like she’s dodged a major bullet.

“Is there extra credit, Sir?”

It’s a line thick with suggestion, and she knows it—even thinks she hears a chuckle in his throat, though she isn’t entirely sure as she can’t bare to look up at him.

“There might be.” His tongue goes to press against one of his molars. “But there will be punishment, too.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, swallows hard, opens them. Finds his eyes.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I am going to whip you for pleasure. But I will be spanking your ass beforehand. Consider it a fortunate bonus that the extra bloodflow will help to prepare your bottom.”

She forces her jaw to remain steady; she suppresses a frown, tries not to focus on the word whipping.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Thank me. Your punishment could have been worse.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Again. With my name.”

She swallows. “Thank you, Master Ben.”

It’s sincere.

“You’re welcome.”

He turns his back to the wall again, rests his head against the boards as if tired.

The Dom puts his hands in his pockets again.

“Stand in front of me.”

She does, finding herself immediately self-conscious.

“You’re covering quite a lot of skin, are you not?”

Ah. This.

She swallows.

“It’s latex—”

“I can see that.”

“Sir—I thought it looked. Nice. Around my waist.” The sentence comes out broken, but then she can’t have it all.

Ben makes a clicking sound with his tongue. Considering.

He reaches out, grips the sub around the waist with both hands.

Rhea finds herself unnerved by how far his grasp reaches around her. _Big. Big big_ —

“Its nice,” he decides, doing the thing that he does with his jaw whenever he thinks seriously about something. “Can you breathe?”

“Not… much,” she admits, slowly, hating the admission of weakness. “And I’m sweating up a storm. Sir.”

He hums.

“You may find it easier to behave when you come a bit more comfortably dressed.”

He scans the room, again, then makes for the zipper at the collar of the garment. He pulls down, unzipping the full length of it, and peels it off her skin without prelude.

“Sorry I’m sweaty,” she groans, a bit embarrassed.

“Whatever. The sheen looks nice on your skin.”

He turns the dress over in his hands—his fingers make slight squeaking noises on the latex—and examines it. She watches with slight annoyance as he checks the tag.

“Checking my size, Sir?”

Master Ben looks at her pointedly. “For if I want to buy you something.” He doesn’t drop his gaze. “Relax. Not everything is a specially crafted plot to hurt you.”

He turns it over in his hands again.

“Also checking the price, if you must know.” He hums. “You’re free to spend your money how you like, but you should know that bra, panty, and a cooperative attitude are enough to please most Doms here. And even then, you’re liable to lose the bra and panty. That’s not to say that a select few don’t require very specific dress. But I’m not one of them, obviously.”

“I didn’t know that I was scening with you today, Sir. And I wanted to try something different.”

He nods exactly once. “Make sure you continue to choose clothing which shows off your body, if not your skin. I only allowed this because it hugged you.”

“Yes, Sir. I will.”

He does a once-over of her body, slower and less business-like than Cullen. His eyes linger, and she feels it.

“Anyway,” he gestures, startling her slightly out of— _well, what was that anyway?_ —and she meets eyes with him again. “Kneel. A sub doesn’t usually stand next to her master.”

She does, of course—not as gracefully as she might’ve wanted, but it works—and looks up at him, this time trying to telegraph obedience. She doesn’t need any more fights tonight, especially not if there’s some kind of whipping incoming.

“Good. Face me unless I tell you otherwise,” he informs her, sticking out one leg so his boot nudges between her knees. It’s clean, matte, probably just leather treated. “Spread your knees slightly, about your shoulders’ width. Sit back on your heels. Is that position comfortable enough to maintain?”

She appreciates the question, wiggling her butt slightly to check that it isn’t uncomfortable on her ankles. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Put your palms on your thighs.”

She places them up, on her thighs, as she’s seen several other subs do.

“Hands-down on your thighs. I personally think up looks a little too spiritual. I don’t subscribe to the Gorean way of doing things.”

The words mean little to her, but she nods along anyway and responds when he prompts for a ‘yes, Sir.’

“Good. You’ll stay like that until I’m finished. I should probably note that some Doms prefer their subs to look only at the floor. I think that can deny some helpful intimacy. I’ll allow you to look anywhere at me, but don’t look at anyone else when you’re in this position and facing me. Understand?”

 _Bit hard to look at anyone else given that you’re up against a wall_ , she smarts, but ultimately keeps to herself.

“I do, Sir.”

“Good.”

She watches him the next half hour or so, sometimes examining the rubber around the bottom of his boots, sometimes gazing up the length of his legs—tall, her brain supplies unhelpfully—and sometimes he catches her eyes and stares back at her. Then, inevitably, he scans the room again, scans each scene for potential issues, clears them, moves on to the next.

Rhea finds herself thinking of how broad his shoulders look, framed by his jacket, when he interrupts.

“Up,” he murmurs, bending to pick up a clipboard from where it rested against the floorboards.

He writes something on the pages while she complies.

“Put this back into your trainee locker,” he says, handing her dress over, “and bring me the clipboard with your paperwork.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Suddenly, he steps closer and closes the distance between them. His free hand wraps around her waist, warm and comparatively large on the small of her back. “These designs are nice,” he nods to her bra, her lower half invisible from how her hips press into him. “But, actually, I don’t think you need this today. Turn,” he commands.

She does, a bit slowly, trying again not to argue. The Dom behind her secures the clipboard under his arm, stylus in between his teeth, and unhooks the back of her bra.

“You can put that in your locker too.”

She turns, halfway, as she knows he wants. He looks at her breasts just as she expects him to.

“Go.”

“Sir.”

She starts away, trying not to focus on the places that jiggle where she doesn’t want them to.

“And Rhea?”

She turns.

“The thong is perfect.”


	13. Lessons

She decides it’s not worth the effort to sass him—at least not until she fully understands what he has in store for her.

For now, she does as she’s told: deposits the clothes in her trainee locker, gets her scene paperwork, walks back to the Fixtures room.

Rhea tries to ignore the inherent self-consciousness that comes with walking around mostly nude. Some Doms murmur appreciatively at her as she walks by them and, ironically, it makes her feel a bit less naked somehow. At least she’s being appreciated.

She finds that he’s moved when she arrives back to the Fixtures Room. Now he stands adjacent to a leather-looking bench. All manners of restraints dangle from it—some obviously meant for ankles, some for wrists. A thick strap hangs loosely off the side, flanked by some thinner strips obviously meant for strapping a submissive down.

_Shit._

Worse still, there’s a crowd gathered—and an actual crowd, not simply the few stragglers you can always find gawking at any old scene. She spots the golden arm bands—three of them—before taking inventory of the rest of the crowd. There are regular Doms, some with accompanying subs; miscellaneous folks who look like they could go either way; two trainees that she recognizes from inspection. She estimates maybe twenty onlookers in total, give or take a few at the periphery.

Club Starkiller isn’t particularly large; the attendee count makes her stomach flip.

_Wonderful._

Removable yellow tape marks a box that centers the bench, giving it a wide berth of clearance on all sides.

 _Probably to give the necessary room for whipping_ , her brain supplies unhelpfully.

Her eyes dart to her scene partner. He’s not bad looking when he’s not annoying her, she thinks, pressing her lips together. He’s tossed his jacket aside now, sleeves of the long gray shirt bunched up to expose his forearms. She ignores the hair there, ignores the obvious male musculature, the—

He turns, looks directly at her.

_Shit._

Rhea forces the considerable hesitation down and strides with manufactured confidently to the apparatus—a spanking bench, she assumes. She hands him the paperwork and climbs onto it, on all fours, without preamble.

There’s silence for a beat. She stares at the leather beneath her.

“What exactly are you doing, trainee?”

The Dom stalks over to her side from where he stood at the feet of the bench.

She looks over and up at him, still on hands and knees. “You said you were going to spank me, right? Sir,” she adds, a little punchily.

Brown, unreadable eyes stare at hers for a long moment.

Master Ben straightens up, looks beyond her. “The demonstration will begin in fifteen minutes. Please excuse the late start. It appears I have some corrections to give first.”

There’s a murmur through the crowd as the observers start talking amongst themselves again as they wait for the scene to start.

Ben, for his part, bends slightly so that he’s closer to being eye-to-eye with the sub. His fingers find purchase in his hair.

He doesn’t quite yank, but she finds she does need to arch her back—needs to angle up—to avoid having tension at her roots.

“Did I tell you to mount the equipment?”

“I was trying to help, Sir.”

“Were you.”

Again: not a question.

He bends, deeper, entering a squat that she notes must require pretty intense quad strength—especially since he manages it easily, with the heels of his boots lifted off the ground.

_Scary._

“You’re a very clever girl, aren’t you?” he breathes, voice silky smooth, so very smooth that it suggests imminent danger. “You must think you can get away with topping from the bottom. You may not even be entirely wrong,” he murmurs, low, only to her. He swallows, scans the room. “I’m sure you could outsmart any number of unsuspecting, ordinary Doms.”

Now he yanks, once, on the impromptu ponytail created in his grasp.

He returns his eyes to hers.

“Not me. I will not allow you to assert your will so that you can avoid feeling the vulnerability that comes from true submission. I will not allow you to reclaim control from me in any way. Do we understand each other?”

“How is bending over _not_ helping—”

“Rhea.”

The rest of her argument dies on her tongue.

“You know just as well as I do that you only hopped up here so you could feel a little bit in control.”

She says nothing.

“Did I tell you to bend over for me?”

“No, Sir.”

“Correct. You should have been awaiting my instruction.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Her cunt clenches down on nothing. She curses it silently.

“And never mount equipment without the word from your Dom. _That_ is a safety issue.” He waits a moment to punctuate the point. “Can I trust that you will never do that again?”

She nods as much as she can manage before the words even come out. “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

Master Ben sighs. He releases her hair a moment later and rises to his full height.

She pushes herself up, brushes her hair back from where it hangs in her face.

“Stand.”

She does, silently, figuring it may actually be better to just stay quiet: less opportunity for him to call her on something.

Ben walks around her and sits in the middle of the bench, back to the audience. She glances up, happy to find that most are still talking amongst themselves, and even further relieved that whatever is to come next doesn’t seem intended as a performance for them.

He gestures with the curl of two fingers, meaning unmistakable.

Rhea maneuvers to lay over him, head resting in the crook of folded elbows, ass positioned over his lap.

She notes, with a pang of disappointment she resents, that he doesn’t seem to be hard.

Large, warm hands roam over her ass. First he grasps her hip and repositions her as he likes—she fights the urge to press into the warmth of his abdomen against her side—then to trace up her thighs and over the swell of her with his palm.

The slap comes immediately, leaving a sting that makes her jerk.

“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

She feels him pause. “Ah,” he murmurs, “so you do know proper form.”

He bends, then, to one side, hot breath close enough to her ear.

“You know that makes any disobedience even more disappointing, don’t you, Rhea?”

She swallows, hard, wishing she didn’t feel guilty.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Sir. I know. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Good.” He pauses again, palms featherlight over her ass again. “Your count is zero. That was merely to feel your skin.”

“Yes, Sir. Zero, Sir.”

He hums. It feels like it reverberates from his lungs, through her side, straight to somewhere warm inside her. She finds herself wanting to push closer to him, and—

_—WHACK!_

His hand comes down on her ass much, much harder than she’d been expecting. She jumps—truly jumps, this time, nearly pulling something in her back as her forearms fly instinctually to push away from his lap.

_Holy fucking shit._

She doesn’t hear the sound she makes over the noise of her own internal shrieking.

“One, Sir. One. One. Thank you, Sir. Thank you.”

He hums again, this time with simultaneous agreement and acknowledgement. He knows exactly how hard he hit her.

“A _much_ better attitude. Your count is one.”

“One,” she repeats quickly, repositioning herself as she was before, how he wants her, “One, Sir.” Then, a second later, almost involuntarily, “You’re strong.”

“Another keen observation.”

“Sir. It’s a compliment, Sir. I—” she searches for the words, a more formal way of expressing herself, “I sincerely admire your obvious commitment to your workout routine, Sir.”

 _That_ gets an obvious chuckle.

 _Thank god_ , she breathes, his hands moving to palm her ass again.

“I wish you didn’t have to find that out in this particular manner.”

It sounds sincere, makes the feeling of guilt within her grow. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Mhm hm.”

He spanks her again a moment later, this time less extreme. Still, it’s hard; she can practically feel her ass turning bright pink with the sting of the blows.

“Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Two.”

He strikes her again, this time kneading her ass firmly after the blow.

“Three, Sir. Three. Thank you, Sir.”

“Three it is.”

Rhea finds that her legs quiver now and, to her mild dismay, she can feel herself growing quickly wetter despite the pain.

She’s not sure exactly why—maybe it’s the actual _whirr_ sound his hand makes through the air, maybe it’s the anticipation of the sting—but she jerks away from the fourth blow, which lands mostly on her upper thigh.

“I—I—Sorry. Sir.” She shifts back onto his lap. “Sorry. Um, three?”

His right hand strokes the back of her head.

“Good girl. You’re right: three.”

She nods quickly, little tears in her eyes.

He must have heard it in her voice.

“I know,” he says, softly, tone entirely different now, “we’re almost there.” Then, “Stay still for me.”

She does, interlocking her fingers and squeezing such that her knuckles turn white.

_Whack_

It’s less hard than the others, but still enough to cause considerable pain.

“Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Four.”

The final blow comes a second later. She tries to suppress a whine but mostly fails.

She at least appreciates that he doesn’t draw it out.

“Five, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Five.” He spreads his spanking hand over one cheek, gives it a squeeze, then does the same with the other. “Mhm,” he hums, seemingly examining his handiwork. “Almost red.”

He kneads her cheeks again, somehow distributing and dissipating some of the pain. “You have a beautiful ass, Rhea. But let this be a lesson: I won’t hesitate to beat it when you act out. You should also consider that I’ve only used my non-dominant arm today.”

_Shit._

She hadn’t noticed that. She’d simply presumed he must be left-handed.

To her horror, as she ruminates, she feels his fingers pulling her panties aside.

He slides one easily down and through her folds, checking her wetness.

“But perhaps I should find a form of punishment you enjoy a bit less.”

She blushes redder than her ass.

Master Ben taps her thigh when he decides she should stand.

He wraps his hands around her waist, steading her as she puts weight onto shaking legs.

Then, to her surprise, he pulls her into a hug. She trembles with the enormous relief of it, the need to be touched and to touch, the need to accept comfort from him—needs she hardly knew she had.

She presses into him, hands flanking the body pressed against his chest. He guides her head to rest near his collarbone, lips against the skin of his neck.

_Warm._

He smells nice.

She lets it all wash over her. Nuzzles.

Somewhere, in the back of her head, she knows a very large part of her objects to giving in like this.

This time, though, she needs to.

Master Ben strokes gently up and down her back.

They don’t exchange any words.

He already knows.


	14. Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the entire scene was supposed to be one chapter... but nope. My bad y'all. I always be underestimating word count.

Rhea breathes in, breathes out. His shirt—soft cotton, she thinks idly—represents the only thin layer separating them. For the briefest moment, she wants to touch him: _really_ touch him. She imagines snuggling on his lap, wrapped in a blanket again, cheek pressed against the warm skin of his chest. She thinks of what it must be like to feel skin on skin, to rub hers against his.

A moment later, the fuzzy feeling begins to fade. She’s vaguely aware of it at first, how it slowly recedes as if seeping out of an open vent in her brain. Then the sensation of loss comes faster, like a small quantity of water violently circling a drain before it vanishes altogether.

She stiffens. Then she stills in his arms.

Master Ben steps back, only an inch, and takes her by the shoulders.

She tries to tug away reflexively. 

“No.”

It’s all he says, but the word stops her cold. She shivers.

“We’re not done yet.”

Rhea finds that she can’t quite bring herself to speak—nor does it necessarily seem a particularly wise idea—as he snaps his fingers at someone to her right.

“Bring a blanket, one of the cylindrical pillows, and my bag.”

His gaze turns back to her.

“Stay," he orders.

He steps around her, moving over to the bench.

She flushes, little sparks of anger threatening to light something inside her. She remembers who he is now—his arrogance, that unwavering self-assuredness—and cracks her jaw. She doesn’t want to obey. The thought of the crowd behind her keeps her rooted, though, far more than his command does. She thinks too of how hard he spanked her the first time; she’s not trying to put on yet another show for them.

Rhea hears mechanical noises come from behind her, the sounds of metal joints moving and of locks clicking to hold them in place.

The submissive Ben ordered around—a trainee named Uzuru—returns then. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as he hands Ben a blanket and pillow before gingerly setting a medium leather duffle at the Dom’s feet.

When dismissed, he disappears into the nebulous group of clubgoers as quickly as he appeared.

“Come.”

She almost jumps. Choking down another tempting bout of annoyance at being commanded like a dog, she turns. The blanket has been laid out across the bulk of the bench, now configured differently. Its height has been adjusted; two parallel slabs of padded leather towards one end are now forked, split apart.

Rhea slides her jaw to one side but nevertheless walks the few feet needed to close the distance.

He looks pointedly at her; his expression all but outright signals that whatever is coming next is non-negotiable.

She slides her jaw back into place, grinds her teeth slightly. Her eyes jump between the duffle—a smooth, rich brown, apparently made with some real craftmanship—and the similarly colored eyes of the Dom.

“Is that how you transport the bodies?”

She can't help but spit it out at him.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. It's as if he’s reading some kind of fine print she can't see.

“Is it always your impulse to make trouble for yourself when you feel nervous?”

She frowns.

A moment passes between them.

“Speak.”

She looks away, then back.

“I… _No?_ ”

It comes out sounding defensive; dishonest. It's clear that he knows it too.

“Ah, you do, because then you control part of outcome.” He clicks his tongue dismissively. “Not this time.”

It pisses her off more than if he had just hit her.

“ _Now_ you will mount the equipment,” he says, gesturing with an open hand. “Lay on your stomach.”

Rhea looks at her feet. They betray her, ushering her another few steps to the bench. She hooks a leg over, straddles it, keenly aware of how the position exposes her ass. She reaches to place her wrists along the V of the forked section of the bench.

“Wrong direction.”

She blinks, looks up. “Sorry?”

“Wrong direction. Those are for your legs.”

Her eyes must have dilated a little since a small smirk appears at the edge of his lips—lips, she notes, that are too large for a man, too plush, yet somehow look totally correct alongside the rest of his features.

She hesitates.

He doesn’t allow it.

“ _Now_ , trainee, or I’ll flip you around and spread your legs myself. Then I’ll have the additional opportunity to reassess whether they should be open wider to me.”

The muscles in her arms flex a little; she moves quickly to slide off the side and re-mount. She grasps each side of the bench, trying to stabilize arms that tremble a little, and stretches out each leg such that each knee finds purchase on either fork of the bench.

She closes her eyes at the slight shame of being on her hands and knees for him, publicly, legs spread apart.

“Good,” he says, walking over. “Down.”

Rhea lowers herself—this time her arms do wobble—until she rests fully flush to the bench. She turns her head so that she lays on her right cheek, preferring not to face the people watching.

 _Too much_.

“The blanket is there so that you didn’t have to lay down onto cold leather. Generous, aren’t I?” He waits a moment, then prompts. “Thank me.”

His voice manages to sound seductive, consuming, even when she hates the words it speaks.

“Thank you, Sir," she says quietly.

“For what.”

“For your thoughtfulness.” 

“Now string both parts together.”

She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, tamps down the large part of her that wants to respond with obvious annoyance in her voice.

“Thank you, Sir, for your thoughtfulness.”

He seems satisfied.

“You’re so welcome.”

He moves so that he stands right by her left side. A small shiver rolls through her body.

“Hips up.”

She moves slightly so she can look over her shoulder.

He holds the pillow with his left hand at one end of it.

“What?”

“What, _Sir_. Raise your hips up.”

Rhea grits her teeth together, turns to look straight ahead with resignation, and raises her hips slightly.

Master Ben slides the pillow under her hips, keeping them propped up even when she rests her weight on it.

She locks her jaw down even harder when he walks between her legs and wraps both large hands around her hips, fingers grabbing to keep the pillow in place beneath her. Then he pulls her down the bench several inches, readjusting her as he likes.

It isn’t lost on her that now her hips rest over the last inches of the bench, her cunt just off the edge. All he has to do to expose her clit, to slide inside her, is pull her panties aside.

_Fuck._

“Very nice. That will do well, I think.”

He straightens up, back no longer bent somewhere over her.

“Stay still.”

She does as she’s told, unmoving, unwilling to take the risk of whatever he might do if she doesn’t.

The cool leather of a band slides around one ankle. He pulls it tight to her skin, then slides a finger to either side of her ankle, ensuring enough clearance before buckling the strap. He does the same with the other ankle, securing her down.

He repeats this process with bands closing around her thighs; a thicker one closes around her midsection, from above the curve of her ass to her lower stomach.

He secures another band just above her breasts, stretching across and covering her shoulder blades.

Warm hands close around each of her wrists then. He guides them to rest on the very edge of the bench on either side of her head. Then he buckles them down.

She gives a test shove and finds that she can’t move—at all.

“Looks good,” he remarks, self-righteous, on her failure to lift off the surface.

Rhea curses him silently. She flexes her fingers, then her toes, savoring the last bit of free mobility that she has left.

The sound of a zipper draws her attention back to him. He squats near her head, rifles through the bag.

Master Ben pulls a nondescript package out, turns it over in his hands, reads something on the back. Then he holds the plastic up to her, looking between something on her and something on the label.

He seems to decide against whatever it is, returning it to the bag.

He does this again a moment later, again holding the packaging up to her, right near her jaw. He hums once, glances between her and the item one last time.

“This one should fit nicely.”

He tosses it onto the top of the bag, rising to his full height.

Then he leans over her and, gentler than she would have expected, gathers her hair. He collects most of it in his left hand, uses his thumb and forefingers to brush a few strands from her face.

“Thank you.”

She hardly meant to say it: it was just one of those things that came out, this time nearly a whisper.

He hums in acknowledgement, tying her hair into a loose ponytail bun high on the back of her scalp.

She takes a deep breath when he turns back to the bag. _Maybe this isn’t so awful after all._

She hears plastic packaging popping, watches then as he tosses the case aside.

When he turns back to her, he’s holding it in his right hand: a ball gag.

“No,” she hears herself say. “No.”

The Dom huffs before squatting again, this time balancing only on the balls of his feet. _Strong_.

“Rhea, do you get to say no to me?”

She swallows. “Only with my safeword.”

“That’s right. I’ll be giving you something to hold to replace your safeword throughout this scene. We’ll practice that in a minute. Now,” he murmurs, leveling with her, “Beg me to gag you.”

Her eyes go a little wide. “I—”

“Rhea. _Beg me to gag you._ ”

She struggles against the nervous shiver that nearly shakes through her. She swallows hard.

“Please, Sir. Please gag me.”

“Mhm," he hums in response, considering. "Why?”

She gawks at him for a moment.

“Um. Because I keep talking back, Sir.”

“And?”

She resents that she already knows the last part of the answer.

“And because you want to, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He gives her a nod of approval, and though he doesn’t smile, she can tell the approval is genuine. “Open your mouth for me.”

She does, a little hesitant. Initially, she doesn’t open wide enough. The ball, seemingly some kind of rubber, first rests against her teeth. She opens wider, feeling somehow more vulnerable in this act of submission than in having her legs spread, and he slides the ball in so it rests just behind her teeth.

“That looks like the right size,” he murmurs, running a finger over each side of her jaw. “Good.”

He stands for a moment, arches over her, and pulls the strap tight.

The first twinge of true fear shoots through her.

“Push with your tongue.”

He buckles the strap when the ball no longer starts to pop out.

Ben moves to rest on one knee next to her.

She feels herself quiver in the restraints, no longer feeling nearly as confident in her decision to come here let alone agree to be a trainee. She must have been out of her mind, and—and now—

“Shhhh,” he murmurs, softly, only for her ears. “Shhh. I know.”

He swipes a small tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

His touch feels so good, so _needed_.

He strokes her cheek.

He doesn’t look concerned, doesn’t look sympathetic, but his tone suggests genuine empathy. Understanding.

“There’s nothing you can do wrong like this, Rhea. All the control rests with me now. You know I can take whatever I want, and I will. Rest easy knowing that you’ll do nothing but please me now.”

Some increasingly silent part of her hates that she actually finds comfort in the words—that she finds her powerlessness _reassuring_ , even.

She blinks back the remaining tears.

Master Ben puts two thin, metal bars in her hands.

“These will substitute for your safeword. I want you to use your safeword if you need it. Do this by dropping one or both of the bars.” He pauses. “Show me now that you can.”

She releases them from her grip; each clangs loudly on the floor.

“Good girl.”

He places them back in her hands, closing her palms over them.

“Whether you drop them deliberately or because you're overwhelmed to hold them anymore, everything will stop immediately, and I will check with you verbally. Do you understand me?”

She nods, punctuated by a single sniffle. The last of the tears dry up.

“Good girl. And Rhea, do know that most subs will use their safeword at least once over the course of their tenure in a club like this. There is nothing wrong with using your safeword. It is not a disappointment. I want you to use it if you think you need it. Do not hesitate. In fact, I _will_ punish you after you recover if I think you should have used your safeword and you did not. Do you understand me?”

She nods again.

“Very good.” He looks over her body, completely unrushed, unashamed to gaze at what’s his.

When his eyes find hers again, she shivers at the intimacy of it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, sounding almost reverent. “Especially like this.”

It takes her by surprise.

She blinks.

With that, he stands.

She breathes through her nose, tries not to shake too badly.

_This is happening no matter what._

She thought she would have fight in her, thought she would feel at least slightly more in control. Instead, she feels completely stripped.

She can feel her heartbeat in her clit.

“I think we’re ready now.”


	15. Demo(lition)

Rhea holds onto the metal bars like they’re actual grounding rods.

She rubs her cheek over the blanket, just once, to feel the softness. At least there’s a bit of warmth growing beneath her as it absorbs her body heat; she probably _would_ be freaking out right now if she were cold on top of everything else.

It grates on her that Master Ben seems to know what he’s doing.

“Right, so, I think we’ll get started then.”

She takes a breath through her nose, bites down a little on the gag.

_Here we go._

“Welcome back to anyone who’s attended one of my demos before. To anyone new, this will be an overview of flogging, with some demonstration, followed by an actual scene. As always,” he takes a few steps, comfortable, like he’s giving some sort of speech on a stage, “There are a few ground rules. All standard rules for scene observance apply, of course. Additionally, I’ll ask that you hold any questions for later; you may approach me with any around a half hour after the scene ends. You’ll find me in the lounge over there.”

She assumes he—somewhere behind her now—gestures in whichever direction.

“Feel free to masturbate if you wish—”

Rhea _jumps_ , turns her head over to stare wide-eyed into the crowd for a moment. Master Marcus seems to notice immediately; he gives her a huge grin.

_Hell._

“—but do refrain from making any lewd gestures or noises. Any distractions and you’ll be escorted from this playroom. I will also immediately eject anyone, at any time, at the very first hint of disrespect towards my sub. We don’t _usually_ have this issue here, but it always bears repeating: this isn’t a humiliation scene, and it certainly isn’t a public one. If you won’t appreciate my sub—quietly—then leave now.”

She finds herself a little relieved that no one moves to leave.

A little hint of warmth blooms in her belly. She turns her face back to rest on her right cheek, eyes searching for him.

He walks back into view a few moments later, makes eye contact, acknowledges her, then turns his focus right back to the observers.

She grimaces at the realization that she likes his attention.

“Right. First step here is always to warm the sub up. Even in harder sadism play, you typically don’t want to cause long-term physical damage unless that’s been explicitly negotiated between you and your sub—and it’s a relatively rare desire.”

The Dom runs his fingers along her spine. She jolts a little; they’re a bit cooler than her body temperature but the touch feels good, a small source of comfort and connection to someone else.

“Luckily, this particular sub already took an attitude adjustment tonight— _as you saw_ —”

She flinches; a blush heats her face.

“—so her ass is mostly prepped already. Still, I’ll demonstrate.”

Rhea finds she doesn’t have to wait long to find out what that means.

Master Ben walks between her legs again—she shivers, completely aware once again that she’s spread open for him.

Large hands grip her then, spanning the entirety of her inner thighs and more. He presses out, thumbs closest to the apex between her legs, spreading her until she feels that the thin piece of cloth she still wears might soon no longer cover her labia.

She tries to suppress the whine, but still some of it vibrates into the gag.

“Typically, you’ll be beating the thighs, the ass, her back. I’ll use female pronouns, by the way, for obvious reasons, but most of this demo will apply to any sub. Just ignore the vaginal advice.”

That makes her clench. She can feel her skin break out into little goosebumps.

Rhea hears a soft chuckle.

His hands travel up and grip her ass, making her whine again, this time in pain. “Yes, see, she’s nearly there already. This pink is the color you should be looking for.”

He smooths his hands over her ass, taking his time, taking possession. He spreads her cheeks—she makes an audible noise of objection—and she feels him trail a finger down the clothed cleft of her ass, down to the wider swath of fabric barely covering her lips.

He cups her.

Hard.

Her pussy clamps down again; there’s doubt that he feels it.

“Good girl,” he breathes, moving his body up. Some of his weight shifts, his own hips pushing into her a bit from behind. His back arches over her, but she can feel some of its warmth. He’s so close.

“Sometimes pinches work best on the back; sometimes you simply need to rub. It depends on the sub’s skin and build.”

He pinches her skin several times, working across the expanse of her back. Then he rubs, firm, like an overly aggressive massage.

“And sometimes a combination is best. That should do.”

He pulls away.

She stifles the urge to whimper at the loss of touch.

 _So pathetic. Get it together. He’s about to_ beat _you._

“You can also flog the calves, the feet. Her breasts, pussy,” he says, seeming to take a longer breath. Probably to watch her reaction.

_Fucker._

“But the thighs, ass, and back should be your primary areas for actual beating. The rest typically requires gentler swats, usually closer to sensation play than to impact. Some important notes here,” he moves again, this time over to her side. “Never strike here—” he fans his hand out over the largest strap, the one which holds her down just above the curve of her ass. “The kidneys are here. You can damage them. Don’t fuck around. You aren’t better than using a protective strap. The responsible thing to do is just to cover that part of the sub.”

He moves, then, fingers tracing up her spine again.

She shivers.

He makes eye contact again, a little longer this time, searching. She meets his gaze, holds it—tries to show she’s not afraid.

He’s satisfied a moment later, apparently; he continues. “Similar note up here. Hitting the shoulder blades hurts like hell. I prefer to cover them for this reason. Alternatively, depending on the kind of restraints, furniture, whatever that you’re using, you can simply have the sub wrap her arms around the bench, for instance. This will curve her shoulders and mostly eliminate the risk of an accidental hit to that area.”

Master Ben does a once-over of over. He grasps at her shoulder and squeezes even as he looks out, above her, addressing the crowd. “And always tie long hair up. You don’t want it getting in the way.”

He squats then, dragging the bag of what she presumes to be toys between them. She watches even as she knows she’s liable to make herself more afraid by watching him rummage. She finds she can’t look away.

He meets her eyes again, hand still moving to close around something in the bag.

“Rhea,” he starts, the volume of his voice lowered so only he can hear him, “I want you to know that you are allowed to cry. You may whine, or try to plead, or scream.” He pauses. “You should also know that none of these will stop me from doing everything I want to do to you.”

With that, as if he’d only said something banal, he stands.

 _Shit_ , half her mind supplies; the other half, more animal, sends a zap of energy straight to her clit.

“There are four main food groups of floggers—well, and all of their variants, but I digress—”

He turns an instrument over in his hand. His fingers wrap around a long, dark wooden handle. Beneath it, long black strips of something—a hide or leather—dangle.

_Shit. Shit shit—_

He continues speaking, mostly managing to drown out the sound of her internal panic.

“This is a classic handle flogger. This is the one that everybody and their grandmother owns.” He turns it over in his hands again. “This is also really the only kind that you can effectively carousel with. Everybody always wants to get right to beating the shit out of their sub, but there are other fun things to explore, too. This one is a nice, gentle sensation.”

He steps back a little, standing more towards her hips.

She feels something touch her back. She jerks, at first, wholly instinctual. Then she settles, slowly, as the sensation continues. Little, featherlight tails in circles up her back, then back down; over her ass; finally, up her side. The ends of the tails tickle the sensitive skin there, making her squirm to the little extent she can manage while completely strapped down.

She tries, furiously, but fails to suppress giggles.

The gag muffles most of the sound—thank god—but she hears light chuckles anyway.

When he speaks again, his own voice is warmer, richer. “Yes, I like that very much.”

Master Ben pulls away; Rhea catches her breath.

“This is also, of course, the classic flogger used in most hitbox stances.” He stands, still at her hips, and moves his feet apart. “Place one foot a bit in front of the other—center of gravity is a bit lower this way, so you’re less likely to lose balance—grasp the tails up and over your shoulder, and—”

_Whamp._

“Swing.”

Rhea pulls at her wrist restraints, the hit coming sooner than she had anticipated. It hurts a little, thuds against her back, but its less intense than she was expecting. More of a deep, reverberating thud, like a large wave had smacked into her.

“You can keep this going for a while if you want. Simply swing back, catch the tails in your hand—don’t hit yourself in the face, preferably—and swing.”

_Whamp._

This time it impacts her ass, making it jiggle. Same level of pain: a little, but not a lot. She can handle it.

“Be sure to move, though. Subs are usually at least somewhat restrained for flogging, so it falls to you to be the dynamic partner. Also: your swinging arm _will_ hurt the next day if you don’t use your hips to put most of the force behind the hit. Like this.”

_Whamp!_

More power behind it; Rhea _umphs_ into the gag.

_Whamp!_

_Ow._

“That one was just for fun.”

_Bastard._

“That’s basically it with this one. It can be a little dull as you build skill, but is nevertheless the classic flogger, and it has its time and place.”

He stops, jaw moving, clearly thinking about something.

“There are a few important notes on materials and buying. Most of you likely already know that, typically, more falls and larger falls usually translate to a thud impact. Less falls—and particularly thin falls—usually translate into a sting impact. This can be especially true of some materials, like rubber, which delivers a rather harsh stinging. You can usually a achieve a little bit of thud or a bit of sting with any flogger, given the right technique and swing, but generally you should use floggers made specifically for the impact you want to deliver. Similarly, any flogger can be a pussy whip if you’re brave enough—”

Rhea absolutely _flinches_ —

“—but I’d recommend staying away from the harder materials unless your sub is a painslut.”

Then, to her horror, she feels a smack between her legs.

He’s swung underhand, up at her mound, letting the falls impact.

She tries to curse at him; the gag swallows it. She hears another round of chuckles.

_Smack._

Her clit _throbs._

She lets out a groan of complaint.

“Mhm,” he hums. “She likes that.”

_Smack._

“Good.”

_Smack._

A little blush of embarrassment heats her cheeks; she pressed her eyes closed. Still, a different heat creeps up her body: a flush which travels up her limbs, heating her body, before settling into her chest.

Her brows knit together in confusion.

“ _Mmmmphf._ ”

“I know.”

It’s all he says—doesn’t elaborate any further. Just acknowledges the whine tinged with question.

Ben steps back over to the bag.

“One other note: many materials used in floggers are porous. These include woods, many hides, et cetera. Don’t use porous toys of any type on multiple subs; you _must_ purchase per sub. This,” he says, turning over the handle several times in his hand, “is a varnished wood, and is thus non-porous, but I still buy per sub if I intend to do anything sexual with it.”

He drops his gaze, meets her eyes—back open now—pointedly.

“This one is bought new.”

Her eyes must go wide because this time he gives her an actual smile.

She blinks at him, suddenly aware that she’s drooling over the gag now. Embarrassing. Sexy.

_Wait—no—_

As he digs around, searches for something new, the wave of sexual tension morphs into something new.

 _Wait—he_ bought _something for her?_

A lot of things, actually, judging from the fullness of the bag.

The realization makes her feel something strange, something unfamiliar. She squirms a little in her restraints.

He bought something for her—he spent _money_ on her. Probably a _lot_.

“ _Mmhmmmf?”_

He pats her head once, twice, as he rises again to his full height.

“This one is a ball handled flogger.” He holds it up a little so the crowd can see. “I hate these. They look nice—beautifully crafted, usually of wood—but beating with these for a long time is difficult. You hold them like this—” he slides his fingers between the ball and dowel connecting to the falls. “In short-term use, these things will make blisters between your fingers. With long term use, they can damage the cartilage in your fingers.”

He stops, rolls it in his hand, considering. “I’ve lost a bit of cartilage, so I stopped using these. You can also carousel with these—a little less easily, but still—”

He does it again: swirls the falls around on her skin, tickling up her sides.

It makes her puff into the tag, trying to hold back a fit of annoyed laughter. It confuses her, mixes disparate emotions together until she hardly knows how to separate them anymore.

He tosses it away. “Borrowed that one from Cullen. I don’t keep one in my bag anymore. Although, if you currently own one and want to stop for health reasons, I suppose you could just use the ball as an anal plug. It’s about the right size.”

Rhea jerks again, harder, trying to whip her head around to glare at him.

Another chuckle.

“Oh, she seems interested. We’ll have to try that sometime.”

_You—you—_

He picks something else up.

“This is a nunchaku flogger in its most common variant: a swivel handle. Hate these, too. I affectionately refer to these as the lazy man’s flogger.”

He swivels it around in his hand so that it swings and swings and swings with only small flicks in his wrist.

_Whack, whack, whack, whack._

All the blows land on her ass.

_Ow—Ow—Oomf—Ow._

“And that’s why. No effort required. Many beginner Doms mistakenly gravitate towards these since they’re so easy to wield. That is the exact opposite of what you should want. You should instead pick up the classic handle, which requires deliberate aim and builds actual skill. This—” he whips it around more, this time only in the air “—lands very unpredictably, especially if you don’t yet know what you’re doing. You don’t want to smack a sub just anywhere.”

He pauses.

“Well, I guess this can also be good if you’re really in the lifestyle and want to flog while catching up on your favorite holovid series.”

That gets a few laughs.

“But I don’t personally own a swivel handle. I don’t find it stimulating to use something that doesn’t require me to do any real work. I like to _control._ This is a poor excuse for control.”

He tosses this one away, too. 

This time, when he walks towards the bag, his boots squeak against the floor.

It sounds familiar, takes her instantly back to the bridge where the squeaking of boots on polished floors are an all-too-regular occurrence.

_God, Rhea, this is the worst time to be thinking about work._

She forces herself to shove the thought of work boots out of her mind, finds her eyes again gravitating to Master Ben.

He holds her gaze as he squats again, finds another flogger. He folds heat into the look. A _lot_ of it.

A tiny whimper escapes the gag.

He smirks again, little corners of his lips turning up in playful lilts.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have all my attention in a moment.”

The Dom pulls two floggers out of the bag this time.

“These,” he says, straightening up, presenting them to the crowd, “are poi floggers. My favorites. These have only been around for a few years now, and they’re probably the best floggers you can get for Florentine flogging, which I’ll demonstrate in a moment.”

He slips his fingers into two loops.

“These are also the easiest on your hands, albeit not nearly the easiest to wield. These are the most acrobatic floggers; they require constant motion. They simply are not made for anything else. As such, these are not the best choices for novices. Please practice on pillows extensively first.”

He takes a few steps back such that he stands at the edge of the yellow tape set out on the ground. “Right, so, box standard figure of eight is fairly self-explanatory. This is achieved with one flogger quite easily—”

She watches him flick his wrist—

_Whack._

Falls thud—with a little sting—onto her ass.

_Ouch._

_Whack._

_Ow._

_Whack._

_Ow._

_Whack._

_“Ommf.”_

\--such that the flogger moves in a figure-eight motion in the air.

“Use both hands, and you’ve got the Florentine—”

_Whack whack whack whack whack whack whack whack._

Rhea pulls hard at her wrist restraints again. Muscles in her back tense; instinct tells her to pull herself up on the bench, to get away.

The straps hold her in place, force her to take it.

_“Ooooooommf.”_

Ben snorts a little. “Mhm. It’s a little bit unfair to Florentine her without going for a while, so I’ll stop here. Needless to say, you can always throw a bit of flourishing in to brag—”

She watches as he does another, more complex maneuver with his wrists.

A small wave of appreciative murmurs come from the crowd, and she understands: it looks really impressive. He spins them in an absolutely chaotic yet entirely controlled frenzy. First he swings back, rotates the flogger behind a bent elbow, then forward, then overhead—all while maintaining the figure-eight, then the full Florentine.

She has no idea how he does it.

Rhea stares a little wide-eyed; she has a strong moment of déjà vu. Something about the way he wields the floggers look so, _so_ familiar. Maybe she’s seen it in a BDSM holo-vid and simply forgot.

Brows knit together.

 _Hm, no, it’s something else_ —something about the exact style of it—

_WHACK._

He catches her off-guard, shoves her out of her own head.

She screams, once, into the gag.

He grins at her, has the audacity to _wink_ , even, which makes her a little furious even as her insides liquefy.

He nods at the people gathered.

“That will be all for the demo piece,” he states, bending to grab the toy bag buy a handle on the side. He drags it with him, several feet back, until he stands behind and off to the side of her. “Please feel free to stay and watch if you want to.”

Master Ben disappears behind her. She clenches the cheeks of her ass, involuntarily, for a second. He doesn’t reappear, though; doesn’t make any noise. The waiting—and uncertainty—of it all makes her nervous.

Her heart starts to race in her chest.


	16. Playtime

This is different, now—being tied down, about to do a scene, completely powerless to stop whatever will happen save for her safeword.

He’s no longer about to simply use her body to demonstrate techniques: he’s about to do whatever he wants with it.

Boots crunch around the side of her left leg.

“Rhea,” he speaks, somehow different now, too. More focused. The presenting attitude is gone, like there’s no one watching them at all. She feels alone in more ways than one.

“You may look at me, or you may close your eyes. Look at no one else.”

Decisive. Confident.

It’s an order.

“Nod now so I know you understand me.”

It happens mostly before she can process it; she nods. His tone leaves little room for arguing—too decisive, too factual, like he’s sure she’ll obey even though she isn’t.

“Good girl.”

He walks to one side of her, left hand fanning out over the accompanying side. He rubs at the skin there as if to say _I’m here_ , simultaneously moving something above her body.

She stills; tries not to tense up too much.

Little touches travel from the nape of her neck, down her back, into the small depression above her pelvis, over her ass.

The falls feel like a soft suede this time, each a little heavy but nevertheless smoothly gliding over her body.

He stops, draping the flogger over her waist so the tails rest over her body.

Both large hands grip at her thighs, rub a little harshly.

She barely suppresses a shiver.

“Does that feel nice?”

Rhea isn’t sure how she’s supposed to answer.

He makes eye contact a moment later, pulling back a tad. She nods.

_“Mhm hmphf.”_

He gives a little smile. It feels like its own reward.

“Good.”

When he picks up the flogger and pulls back again, she finds it a little bit unnerving how willing she is to watch him.

He’s a confusing man; some parts of his body barely go with others. He has muscles, that’s for sure, though they’re less defined as others in the club. It’s like he’s built them only for practical purpose—no showing off intended. It makes him seem more powerful somehow.

Where his body is long and lean, his face is comparatively plush. Birthmarks pepper his skin, but he looks the very definition of privilege, like he’s had a skin and hair routine for a long, long time. Perfectly groomed. Aquiline nose bisecting his features.

The combination is almost unnerving. She’s never seen anything quite like it in a man before.

She feels somehow a little dizzy, even though he’s barely started hitting her. No adrenaline rush can account for the feeling.

“ _Mhmmmmphf.”_

It’s a long whine. She doesn’t mean to make any noise, but somehow it slips out.

He smiles again, gentle.

“Sweet sub.”

He cocks his head to one side.

“Well, maybe only when tied up. But it’ll do for now.”

She tries to make eyes at him, tries to somehow magick what he’s planning to do. No signal cuts through the noise to tell her.

“Try to stay still, Rhea. Remember that this is because I like you.”

She barely has time to process before she sees him raise one arm, grasp the tails, and strike.

_Whamp._

_Unf._

It smacks her across the back.

He does it again, rearing back so he catches every tail in his hand—he’s obviously done this millions of times before—and whips at the wrist to strike her again with the classic handled flogger.

_Whamp!_

It’s hard to miss that this hit is harder. She groans a little, mostly suffocated by the gag.

It feels like a thousand tiny hammers are raining down on her, all across her back. Each feels a little more forceful than the last, but somehow the reverb they cause in her lungs feels comforting—cathartic, even. It feels a little like very large drops of rain are hitting her, the kind that come from a thunderstorm. She can almost imagine curling up with a blanket and a book—

_Whamp!_

She wants to bite a lip, wants to bite down on her cheek, but she can’t. She can only lie still, take it, and feel what comes after.

She thinks about which tea she’d drink in a violent thunderstorm— _maybe a chamomile?—_ and—

_Whamp! Whamp whamp whamp!_

Her logical brain helpfully supplies that it _hurts_ , but somehow it feels so, so good, too. It vibrates through her body, grounds her to the table. She curls and unfurls her toes.

_WHAMP!_

Harder. He’s hitting her harder.

A wave of lubrication rolls through her, slicking her entrance more than it already is, smearing onto her inner thighs.

_I can’t—_

_Whamp!_

_—believe—_

_WHAMP!_

_—I like this—_

_WHAMP!_

He can, though. He seems to know exactly what she needs.

Ben catches her eyes again, holds her gaze to his. She can’t look away even as decorum calls for it.

 _Take it_ , he breathes between beatings. _Good girl._

She does: has no choice. Feels good.

When he steps away, she feels almost dizzy.

She wraps her fingers tighter around the rods. She won’t let go.

He walks down, boots squeaking again. He disappears. When he maneuvers between her legs again, she finds she doesn’t mind this time. Her skin pebbles into little raised bumps, but she doesn’t clench, doesn’t feel the same anxiety.

She breathes in through her nose, then out, appreciating every rise and fall of her lungs.

Plastic packaging pops open somewhere behind her, though she’s only somewhat aware of the noise. It doesn’t grate on her like it did before; she doesn’t feel the need to crane her neck and get a look.

Something hums to life, then; some mechanical squeaking comes from somewhere down and beneath her body. And then—then—

Something large, unmoving, vibrates on her clit.

It’s a wand: she can tell even in her addled state.

He’s placed it on the lowest setting, thank god, but still the powerful toy hums between her legs, jiggling either thigh. She grasps the sides of the bench, bars pressed between her palms and the bench.

“ _Unmmmf.”_

He reappears, smiling a little, yet all business. She can tell his only focus is with her.

_Feels good._

_Wait—no—_

_Yes._

“You may come if you can manage it.”

He rears back again, again grasping the tails in one large hand, again sending them cascading over her body.

This time they land, brutally, over her thighs. There’s thud, yes, but they sting, too.

Her pussy clamps down hard, pressing her clit into the vibrator.

She tries to raise her hips experimentally in a half-hearted attempt to escape.

She can’t budge. Once again, all she can do is lay there, take it, lean into the sensations.

He does it again.

God, it’s hard, she thinks, tonguing at the gag. It won’t move. Nothing will move—

_Whamp!_

Again.

He’s setting a rhythm, a pace.

The falls travel up, slowly, from her thighs to where they meet her ass, onto her cheeks.

The entire region heats, then starts to _burn_.

“ _Oooooomphhhh—”_

She sounds pleading and, if completely sober, she would’ve objected to how terribly needy she sounded. Like this, though, she barely notices, only wants more, and—

“Good girl.”

_Whamp!_

She whines, louder. She can’t help it anymore: the sounds are all their own, coming out whether she wants them to or not.

_Whamp! Whamp! WHAMP WHAMP WHAMP!_

She can feel herself grasp at the restraints, flex abdominal muscles under the softness of her stomach. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. There’s nothing she can do.

A trail of spit rolls down her chin.

He disappears between her legs again.

She breathes—in, out, in, out—and tries to count each breath. She keeps finding that she loses count after a few, questions the count, has to start over.

_I—I—_

Then she feels her panties being pulled aside so that they rest on the right asscheck, exposing her pussy.

Long, thick, warm fingers slide through her folds.

“ _Unf. Ummmf—”_

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Shhhhh. I’ve got you.”

She presses her eyes closed, involuntarily, focusing on the vibrations against her clit.

Two fingers stretch and slide into her, side-by-side, feeling almost too much.

She whines, pants, moans into the gag.

He doesn’t stop.

Master Ben’s fingers start pumping within her, this time curling a bit down, rubbing against one of her inner walls.

She tries to raise her hips again; her legs start shaking with the pressing need of it all.

“Come.”

It’s an order, leaving no room for interpretation, and again she finds herself dumbfounded that her body seems to obey.

Her pussy clenches once, twice, before a shudder wracks her body on the third. She feels herself clamp down on him, again and again, clit suddenly shoved off the edge of a cliff into the chasm of overstimulation.

He grinds his palm into her, digits almost too deep. She comes, a little violently, alongside a groan which makes her bite hard into the gag.

She usually never makes noise.

“Beautiful. That’s it.”

Ben pulls his fingers out.

She moans loudly at the loss of fullness.

“Shhhh. Greedy, messy thing.” He shuffles behind her; she can feel her wetness coating her thighs. “Hush,” he orders. “Take this now.”

Something cooler presses against her entrance before sliding in easily, already slicked from the lubrication her body offers.

It presses in, nearly the same width as his fingers, thinner than a cock. He twists it within her, rotates it, pulls out, presses back in.

She whines, tries to rub her clit against the vibrating wand.

The Dom behind her turns up the setting.

Little tears form at the waterlines of her eyes.

_Too much. Too, too much—_

It’s all too much. She can barely breathe, and—

It registers that the handle of the flogger is inside her.

“Do it. Come.”

It’s another order, harsher this time. She can hear the strain of huskiness in his voice.

She tries to keep herself from doing it, but in trying to resist again clamps down. It pumps once, twice, three times—all hard—and she finds herself going over again against her better wishes.

Again she yells something incoherent and foreign sounding into the gag. It seems almost a blessing, now, that she even wears one.

“Consider how much bigger my cock is; how that might make you feel—”

She does, moaning, all social pretense thrown out the window. All her shyness, her shame, is gone now. She feels only the intense vibrations on her clit and the silkiness of his voice.

Her eyes are screwed shut. She bites down on the gag so hard that she’s sure her teeth must have penetrated the rubber by now.

He pulls the handle out and slaps her cunt.

“Come.”

She would’ve been embarrassed if she was all there. She would’ve cursed him up and down, called him all kinds of names, asked him exactly who the fuck he thought he was.

Now all she does is sob into the gag and pulse repeatedly on nothing.

Master Ben slaps her ass, hard, with a cupped hand.

He does it again when her sobs start to die down.

An unintelligible stream of noises come from her mouth, no longer any one discernable sound.

Her thoughts are equally jumbled, all interconnected and contradictory at once.

“Good girl.”

There’s a long pause; she struggles to breathe.

She breathes in, long, through her noise. Out. In, through her nose, gasping to fill her lungs. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

She can’t explain why this is happening. She can come on her own but usually only in her quarters, when it’s completely quiet, at night, with her eyes screwed shut. Even then, it takes minutes and minutes and minutes of concentration. She can’t deviate at all from the rhythm she applies to her clit or she finds she has to start all over again.

This— _this_ feels unfair, another great cosmic injustice in a list of cosmic injustices. How is it that he can make her come so easily?

He doesn’t even know what having a clit or a cunt is like. He has a cock, and—

_SMACK!_

She screams.

_SMACK!_

_Oww._ A sob wracks her body.

 _God_ , it hurts. Really, really hurts.

Somewhere, behind her, she completely neglected to notice that he picked up another flogger.

The vibrator hums, overwhelmingly, on the now-too-sensitive nub of her clit.

 _Please, please_ , she tries to beg. He can’t hear her. The words get lost in the gibberish translation of the gag.

_Please._

“Kriff,” Master Nolan leans over towards Master Marcus. Both men have their arms folded. “What a fucking gamer.”

Marcus grins. He watches as the sub tries to scream again. He thinks he hears the classic flurry of begging coming from the sub. “Told you.”

“Ugh.” Nolan nearly touches his forehead to his palm. “We’re going to get so many requests for her.”

Marcus takes a sip of his beer. “Yep.”

“And we’ll have to turn them all down.”

“Yep.”

“Man, I don’t think even Ben expected this.”

“I know I didn’t. She seemed tough, but this is something else.”

“Man, he’s such a bastard, isn’t he? Forcing a scene before the rest of you.”

“Yep.” Marcus swallows. That’s how it is sometimes. _Oh well._ “You think we’ll even get to play with her?”

Nolan considers, spinning his own glass over and over in one hand. “I’m sure he’ll allow her to rotate once, if just out of respect for you guys.”

“But after that,” Marcus takes another sip, “All bets are off.”

Nolan nods solemnly. “All bets are off.”


	17. Knowing

“Rhea? Rhea.”

Large fingers snap in front of her face.

She feels like she’s being woken up out of a coma.

“mmm—?”

“There you are. It’s fine, she’s here—”

Master Ben shoos several bodies away.

“Shhh, you’re alright. Can you hear me?”

He unbuckles the gag, twirls his finger around the line of spit which connects to her mouth. He pulls it away, wipes his hand clean on a small towel.

“I—I—yeah?” She stares a little dumbly for a few long seconds. She blinks several times over.

“I pulled you out. You slipped a little deeper into subspace than I thought you would.”

She only stares.

_I—what?_

“Okay,” she murmurs, a little sleepily.

It’s all she can really manage. She’s barely aware of what’s going on.

 _Tired._ She’s so tired.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a small frown carved between his eyebrows.

“I’m fine,” she yawns, like she isn’t even sure why he’d ask.

A warm hand pats her on the arm.

“Good. Okay, stay still. You’re weaker than you think, Rhea. Please stay still.”

She yawns again. “Mm. Okay.”

She feels straps being pulled free all down her body, their buckles opening to un-root her body.

“You’re okay?”

She glances over her shoulder, wipes a little at the spit on her chin.

“Stop asking me that,” She yawns again, unable to repress it. “ _God, you’re so annoying._ ”

Ben chuckles from somewhere behind her. “Good, she’s fine. The insolence is back already.”

Rhea smacks her lips a little drunkenly.

Two hands grasp her around the waist.

“Here,” he murmurs, breath hot on her ear. “Sit up.”

He pulls her hips up so that she rests on her hands and knees.

Her elbows shake violently; he holds her up.

A different set of hands closes around her shoulders. Together, the hands rotate her so that she sits on her butt.

_Oww._

Major _oww._

Ben bends and wraps one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders. He scoops her up, ignoring the sub’s objections, and jerks his head at Dan.

“Slap a ‘Needs Cleaning’ sign on that bench, will you? And put my bag in her locker. Have the nearest trainee bring me another blanket and some water.”

“Sure.”

It’s the only response he gets, and apparently the only thing he was waiting for.

He takes off towards a solitary grouping of chairs towards one corner of the barroom, tucked away from more social seating arrangements in the room. He turns and sits in a higher-backed leather chair, as oversized as the rest of them, pulling her with him.

She lets her head loll into his shoulder.

_Warm._

“There you go,” he murmurs, patting her cheek. “Just rest.”

Austin speeds over a minute later; Ben finds himself, for once, grateful for the sub’s over-insistence on serving.

“Thanks,” he says simply, taking the warmed blanket from one sub to drape over the other.

She smacks her lips as he covers her with it.

_Warm. Safe._

“You’re adorable.”

“Mmm.”

It barely registers with her, what he says. She simply cuddles, obeying the urge to press closer, to nuzzle her head beneath his neck.

“Drink this,” he murmurs to her, cracking the seal on a bottle of water.

Rhea refuses to lift her head.

“Not—” she hiccups “—not thirsty.”

“Yes, you are. Drink.”

Her brows pull together but she doesn’t fight him when he puts the mouth of the bottle to her lips. He tilts, slowly, so she can drink.

Soon the entire bottle is gone.

“Good girl. Much better.”

His hand rises, presses against her cheek, guides her back to rest on his shoulder.

Ben pulls the blanket up around his sub’s shoulders.

She shivers, then nuzzles.

_Feels nice._

Someone drops by—the Dom exchanges a few words; she presses into the vibration of his vocal cords.

Her lips find a divot in his neck; she pulls away—only slightly, as he doesn’t let her pull back any further—until her eyes focus. She realizes its an extension of the scar that slashes diagonally down his face.

“Wesley. How are you?”

Rhea glances once, decides she isn’t interested. Her head feels heavy; she wants to lay it back down again. She finds her eyes drawn back to the scar, to the place it runs just parallel to a vein in his neck.

He got lucky: it barely missed his jugular.

She yawns, reaching to cover her mouth instinctually, and listens to the ever-stronger voice telling her to lay back down. She does, barely questioning, and soon finds herself idly mouthing over the little scar.

Leather squeaks from somewhere across from them as the other man sits down.

The Dom above her huffs, moves his hand so he pats the back of her head.

She thinks, vaguely, that maybe he’s a little bit ticklish.

“Hey, Ben. I’m good. How’re you?”

He nods his head at the sub in his arms. “Doing pretty well tonight.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Wesley smiles. “You two known each other a long time?”

Rhea tries to lift her head to get a better look at the man, tuning in and out of the conversation as her brain seems fit. Master Ben keeps her head down on his shoulder.

He makes a small noise that sounds like dissent in his chest.

“She only came to the club for the first time a few weeks ago.”

“Oh. It seemed like you two had a close connection.”

A few long seconds pass.

“Sometimes there’s just a connection. Or the appearance of one.”

Rhea doesn’t know whether she wants to argue that, _hey, we don’t have a connection at all_ or whether she wants to lift her head and look insulted that maybe he’s denying one. She squints, a visual depiction of the confusion in her head.

She smacks her lips, stays silent instead.

Ben seems to notice her semi-conscious effort to stay quiet, patting the back of her head again.

“I don’t know how—how do I do that?”

“Flog?”

“No, like—you were in her head. Even though maybe, at the start, she didn’t want you to be. I don’t know how I can do that.”

Ben hums. “Takes lots of practice.”

“Should I—like, should I put in a request to scene with her?”

The Dom holding her chuckles a little. “Wes, I like you. With all due respect, though, this sub is more than you can bite off at the moment. She needs someone who can put her back in her place with extreme prejudice, all without bruising her feelings too badly. I’m not sure you’re there yet.”

The man across from him—Wes—nods. “I’m not.”

Master Ben sighs. “Meditate for a while on why you’re doing this; what you get out of it.”

There’s silence for a moment. “What do you—well, if I can be so personal—what do you get out of it? Examples of what you mean, I guess.”

“Well,” he starts. His chest rises and falls rhythmically underneath her; she can feel soft beats of his heart from across the expanse of his chest. “Mostly what everyone else does, I’d imagine: the feeling that I can take good care of someone smaller, more helpless. Knowing that someone is trusting me to fulfill risky desires safely. Things like that.”

Wes nods. “That makes sense. I want those things too.”

“So, then, go find one of the newer submissives: one that won’t look you in the eyes for too long. Take her out onto the equipment, dominate her. Take care of her after, hold her close. Make her kneel for you. Ask her questions, find out what she likes—truly likes. Don’t allow her to evade you. Start there.”

The younger Dom nods again. “Makes sense.”

“You would pair well with someone mild for now. Look at Sarah, maybe. You two seem compatible enough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s pretty. I’ll look into it.”

Ben hums; it vibrates against her cheek.

The two men talk for a while longer. Rhea zones out, though, as the conversation turns to topics more monotonous—random happenings on the base, the weather outside. _Blah blah blah._

She cuddles, eyes half-lidded, for a long time—long enough that the atmosphere of the club changes. Somewhere, overhead, an entirely different genre of music begins to play.

When he speaks, she finds that her body jerks.

_Mphf. Must’ve been asleep._

“Ayse?” A few gentle shakes. “Wake up.”

She curls up a little, then stretches out, lengthening her legs, curling her toes.

She rubs at her eyes.

Then, all at once, she tenses.

Stops.

Turns to look at him.

“Wha—?”

Master Ben cocks his head.

“Wha—what did you say?”

He lifts his eyebrows.

“I said,” he repeats slower, sounding patient, “’Rhea, wake up.’”

She stares for a long, long moment. Her heart thumps off-beat in her chest.

He looks back at her, looks directly in her eyes.

Nothing seems amiss.

She relaxes, rubs harder at her eyes, grasps once at her forehead. “Sorry. I—I must’ve been asleep.”

She scrunches up her eyes; she feels a little groggy.

“You were. Only lightly, though. Just started to drift.”

He reaches, picks up a cup resting on the adjacent end table. When he raises it to his lips, she smells the distinctive scent of whiskey.

Rhea pulls away a few inches such that she’s face-to-face with him.

She wrinkles her nose.

“Bourbon is the devil’s drink.”

Master Ben smirks at her. He takes a long, pointed sip.

“I suppose it fits me perfectly, then.”

She wants to smile—she manages to convert it into a smirk of her own—and wrinkles her nose again for added emphasis.

“You’re nasty.”

“You, too, judging by tonight.”

He reaches, tucks a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear.

She can’t help but blush even as she silently curses him.

“How are you feeling?”

He pulls the blanket down so it rests under her shoulders, pushes a warm mug into her hands.

She glances down.

Hot chocolate.

“Pretty much like you’d expect.”

She takes a sip. It’s good: rich cocoa. Probably Dutch process. _Fancy stuff_.

“Which is?” Rhea shoots a little glare at him. “I’m not sure I like that expression, submissive.”

She swallows.

“You know. Like I was made to come four times while being beaten to hell.”

Ben takes a sip of his own drink. “Is that so.”

“Yes.”

She looks away, corks her mouth tightly. Bastard.

“And?”

“And now I’m here, being restrained in a new and creative way. With a bribe of chocolate.”

The Dom snorts.

“I see my lessons didn’t fully take.”

She pulls her mouth to one side, then the other. She takes another sip so she doesn’t have to say anything.

It’s then, when she repositions herself slightly so straighten her back, that she notices.

“Hey—what? Where did my panties go?”

He raises his brows again; this time amusement glimmers in his eyes.

“I took them—”

“You what? You’re such a—”

“Woah.” Master Cullen stands there, five feet off to the side of them. He tilts his head to one side, also wearing a smirk.

Right bastards, the both of them.

“What exactly is going on here?”

“He’s graduated to taking trophies from me like some kind of serial killer.”

 _That_ makes Master Ben laugh—makes both Doms laugh, actually. She finds she has to suppress the urge to lose her anger and giggle with them, especially given the expression on Cullen’s face.

“Rhea, I’d be on your side if he’d yanked a molar out with pliers and shoved it in his pockets. But panties?”

“That’s _stealing_ —”

“I’d be on your side if he was taking your HoloPad, okay? He’s not taking your HoloPad.”

She frowns bitterly.

“I like those panties.”

“Yeah,” Ben snipes, sipping another taste of whiskey, “me too.” He pauses. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring them back after I’m finished with them.”

 _God_ , she wants to hit him.

Cullen chuckles again, wishes the Dom luck, and strides over to man his shift at the bar.

She sips more of her own drink, stiffer now. Fuming.

“Is money a problem for you, Rhea?”

She pulls back from him a little, looks at him in disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“Is that how you talk to a Dominant.”

“Excuse me, _SIR_?”

He rolls his eyes. “Remind me next week to administer another spank or two.”

_Shit._

“Now answer me.”

She looks down at her cup.

“No. It’s not.”

“Then why so jumpy? About this, about the toys. You flinched when I mentioned purchasing things for you. Physically flinched.”

It’s a fairer question than she wants to admit. She doesn’t want to do this psychoanalytic shit—not here, half-naked on a couch with somebody in a sex club.

“I don’t—” she blanches, stops that sentence dead in its tracks. “I don’t even know you.”

“No? I’ve had my fingers in your pussy twice now. Some might say we’re very well acquainted.”

Rhea swallows. “Well not me.”

He holds eye contact with her for a long time; she refuses to look away.

She isn’t fucking _Sarah_. She isn’t afraid of him.

“Okay then.”

It punches her a little. Rhea tries to ignore how she feels almost disappointed that he just _accepts_ it—how that actually _stings_ a little.

It shouldn’t.

It does.

They both move, simultaneously, to drink from their cups.

_Shit._


	18. Mysticism

Ayse throws herself into her chair, mid-morning, and tosses her stuff onto the cabinet beside her.

“You’re late,” Peavey hisses.

“And I didn’t miss a thing. It’s propaganda day.”

“Ayse, shut your mouth. You know as well as I the extensiveness of our surveillance systems—especially on the Bridge. The Supreme Leader could hear you.”

“Let him.” She waves one hand, nails painted black, dismissively. She takes a bite of a sandwich she brought for early lunch. “That’s what these things are,” she grumbles, through a full mouth, unabashedly. “Propaganda.”

“The Supreme Leader’s speeches are of great import—”

“Save your breath, Edrison. No one cared about them when Hux did them, and no one will care now that Ren is doing them.”

“You could have missed it—”

“Missed it?” Ayse scrunches up her brows as if he’s insane. “Peavey, they have speakers outfitted in every refresher. I couldn’t miss it if I tried.” She takes another bite. “And trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Ayse—I—” Captain Peavey pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just arrive to work on time in the future. Please.”

“You ask so nicely.” Peavey huffs. “You know I prefer coming late and staying late. I like watching the Suns go down. The base looks a little less godforsaken at night; the views out the viewport can actually be nice, all the cannon lights glittering down there on the surface.”

Ayse has learned, in her short tenure on the job, that arriving early only gives the most obnoxious officers even more time to harass her with inane tasks and paper-pushing nonsense. She’s tired of it already, prefers to roll up to her desk late enough that she skirts the edge of actually being fired for cause.

“Ayse.” Peavey sighs, reconsidering. He pinches the bridge of his nose again, then waves her off. “Forget it. You’ll learn in time.”

She hums, cocks her head. “Doubtful.”

She enjoys only a few seconds of repose before the overhead speakers crackle to life, static tempting her ears to bleed until the levels smooth out.

Some of the more ass-kissing officers assemble into parade stance before saluting at nothing.

She rolls her eyes, vaguely considers whether she might get away with putting headphones on.

 _“The First Order has proven itself a most resilient machine,”_ the familiar, mechanical voice overhead begins. Ayse has to tamp down the growing urge to roll her eyes again. _“Together, we have persisted in bringing a new order to the Galaxy, persisted through the unprecedented challenge and monumental loss of Supreme Leader Snoke.”_

“Who even writes this shit?” she asks, leaning over until she’s within earshot of Peavey.

He shoots her a look.

_“Today, in keeping with my commitment to increased transparency throughout the Order, I am pleased to announce the creation of the Supreme Council. This deliberative body of twelve will help advise me in creating a plan for galactic rule under the First Order. First seated is Allegiant General Enric Pryde, formerly of the First Order Naval Reserves.”_

Ayse exchanges a nervous glance with Peavey.

Allegiant _General?_

_That’s not good; whatever happened to General Hux?_

_“—Pryde served honorably under Imperial Rule, and will no doubt continue to do so with increased oversight over both our Naval and Ground forces. Next seated is Admiral Frantis Griss. Admiral Griss formerly served as an aide to General Pryde, and—”_

Ayse flinches. A wave of thoughts rolls over in her mind.

She’s never heard of these people before. This can only mean one thing: the tides of First Order leadership are changing. Significantly.

Her mouth presses into a thin line.

_“—General Amrett Engell, who has long been responsible for the success of the Stormtrooper raising and training programs. Next seated, General Hux, followed by General Bellava Parnadee. General Parnadee is—”_

Ayse feels her brows shoot up. That snub against Hux—that can’t be anything but completely deliberate.

 _Gods_ , she thinks. It’s about to be a terribly dramatic day on the Bridge. Maybe she can call out sick—she’ll have to start faking a cough right now, but—

“Pay attention, this is important.”

She huffs, straightens up again, but doesn’t deny it.

_“—and will continue commanding our ground forces. Lastly, General Domaric Quinn. General Quinn first served the Empire and has long since served as a key computational strategist for our forces. In keeping with this shift towards Council-advised governance, a further six individuals will join the Council as aides and advisors of our six aforementioned key military leaders. Allegiant General Pryde brings his aide and trusted advisor from his former post, Senior Lieutenant Brengil Abbcoff. Advising Admiral Griss will be Senior Lieutenant Poldin LeHuse, first wingman of my personal squadron.”_

That bit makes her jerk more awake than she already is, forces her to tune in despite her best wishes otherwise.

 _Oh shit_ , she thinks. _Cullen._

“This is going to change everything,” Peavey warns over the continued announcement of another appointment. “You should tie up any loose ends on your current task-set, Ayse. I’m sure this will change our daily responsibilities—at least until the dust settles.”

She nods, idly, and pulls up her tracking board of tasks in progress.

_“—Phasma will continue to advise and work closely with General Hux. Next, Lieutenant Omarelia Estirig will step into an aide role under General Parnadee.”_

She clicks around her personal task board, marks old tasks _Completed_ , shuffles a few lower-priority items onto the Backlog board. She’s going to need any free time she can get to handle the drama of the upcoming few days.

 _“And, finally,”_ she vaguely catches Supreme Leader Ren uttering from some speaker above, _“Lieutenant Ayse Holdeag will serve as advisor to General Quinn.”_

Everything stops.

A harsh ringing sounds in her ears, causing interference with the soundwaves of all else, cancelling them entirely.

Ayse thinks she sees white for a moment, debates for the briefest time whether she’s passed out.

When she looks up, she finds Captain Peavey staring at her with the same bewilderment she feels.

“I—”

He cuts across her.

“An error, I’m sure. The Supreme Leader misspoke.”

“I—” she chokes. “ _Peavey_.”

“Someone with a similar name.”

“There’s no one with a similar name.”

Peavey stares, slightly open-mouthed. She’s sure her expression mirrors his own.

“A mistake, then. I’ll—I’ll speak to my command. Surely this is an error.”

“— _appointments shall report to High Command Conference Room_ Vader _at 1200 hours for an inaugural Council meeting_ —”

Peavey blinks in rapid succession. “You need to go to that, Ayse.” She stays perfectly still in her chair. “Ayse. That’s in five minutes. Go. You need to go. Don’t worry—I’ll handle this while you’re gone—a _misunderstanding_ —”

“I’m not going.”

She barely hears the sound of her voice; it sounds disembodied, foreign somehow.

“Ayse. You must.”

That makes her leap up, makes her round on her Captain.

“I’m not fucking going. Are you insane?”

“You—”

“ _He’s_ fucking insane. I don’t know what he’s playing at. I’m not fucking going. _Kriff._ I—”

“Ayse—”

“NO!”

Peavey stops. Half the Bridge freezes.

He regards her with barely restrained concern.

Her chest rises and falls; she can feel the skin under one eye twitching. “I—I’m just going to sit here and—and do my work—”

She sits down, slowly, dragging her monitor closer with shaking hands.

Peavey opens his mouth. She sees it out of the corner of her eye.

“Leave, Edrison. Before he kills you, too.”

Under different circumstances, she might’ve found his sudden streak of protectiveness endearing. Now, though, it only further fuels the gas fire of anger within her.

She slams away at the keyboard, suddenly more motivated than ever before to reply to emails. She acknowledges technical incidents, assigns them to herself, moves stupid tasks around between stupid boards.

She watches the clock tick up in the corner of her monitor.

_1157._

_1158._

_1159._

_1200._

Ayse swallows the bile that pools at the back of her throat.

She chews on the inside of her cheek.

 _Coward_ , a voice coos to her, nestled somewhere in the back of her brain. _You’re a coward_.

She wrestles with it only for a second, hands shaking—more out of fury than nervousness—before she pushes herself up.

Her periphery goes blind with rage as she stomps up the ramp, onto the main deck of the Bridge.

She makes her way for _Vader_ —it’s down the hall, to the left, through double blaster doors.

She grabs a cigarette out of an unsuspecting officer’s hands as she passes by, popping the filtered end into her mouth without skipping a beat, probably catching some kind of communicable disease in the process.

“Why does everybody on this goddamn base want to fuck me so bad?” she seethes, through her teeth, raising the cigarette to them.

She takes a long, long drag, barely suppressing the strong urge to choke and cough. She sways a little, her footing askew from where she intends to plant her feet with each step.

The effect is immediate and stronger than she anticipated.

She takes another long drag.

When the double blaster doors open for her, expecting her, she nearly tumbles into the room.

She sways, noticeably this time, as eleven sets of eyes fall on her simultaneously.

Another set joins, this time from the far end of the sleek, black table. She can feel them immediately—can feel the _weight_ of them—just as before.

Ren.

“Ah. So she’s decided to finally grace us with her presence.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” an obnoxious voice pipes up, shrill tone cutting through stiff air.

She meets the eyes of Hux. Then, a moment later, she waves both hands once, casually, as if by way of explanation.

“Me neither.”

She takes another drag before exhaling out her nose, thrilled to no doubt look every bit as pissed off as she feels.

“Some notice would’ve been nice.”

Her eyes flick over to the left side of the table. She locks eyes almost immediately with the man she knows mostly as Master Cullen.

She nods once, curtly.

“Poldin.”

She takes another puff. Ren stalks, slowly, around the table. The blackness of his robes billow around the back of his feet, nearly catch around his ankles. She wishes she could will him to trip.

“Is that” he starts, voice somehow deadly smooth even through the vocoder, “what you’ll say to our enemies when they fire upon us? ‘Some notice would’ve been nice?’”

Someone unfamiliar—tall, thin, greying hair—snorts somewhere down the table.

She shoots the man a piercing glare.

“Answer me,” he barks.

She manages to suppress the jump, but an errant shiver runs through her body.

“Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it be nice if they did?”

She breathes in, long, sucking smoke-suffocated air into her lungs. She breathes out.

She wonders, vaguely, if these will be the last breaths she ever takes.

“With all due respect, Sir,” Hux begins again, “surely we don’t want _her_ on the Council?”

Ayse points the lit cigarette in the direction of the General.

“You know—and this is the first time in my life that I’m saying this—but I actually agree with General Hux.”

“Be silent. The both of you.”

The reprimand falls on them both, immediately, like a large section of brick wall.

“I seem to recall,” Ren continues, drawing closer to her, slowly, like he’s toying with prey, “that, not so long ago, you would settle for nothing less than extremely competitive pay.”

He stops only when he’s doubled back, behind her, inches from her throat.

“Now you have the responsibilities to match.”

She can feel the rush of air from the vocoder on her neck. The little hairs there bristle.

“Sit.”

She does, moving a foot around the table to take the only open chair left.

The command leaves no room for disagreement.

A datapad sits in front of her, embedded into the table. Red and blue lights glow up at her, buttons waiting to be pressed to project a Hologram, a map. She wishes she could meld into the colors and vanish.

She thinks she might be sick. Maybe it’s the cigarette on a mostly empty stomach.

“Lieutenant Holdeag noticed two erroneous findings in a tactical report last week. How curious it is that a _Junior_ Officer found these errors in a mere matter of seconds while they somehow escaped the rest of your notice.”

A beat passes. Her eyes flare: she swallows hard.

“Domaric? An explanation, perhaps,” Ren breathes.

A man to her immediate right makes a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He clears it, then speaks.

“Small oversights in the calculation of differential forms on manifolds, sir. The simulation conclusions remained unaffected by these errors.” He pauses for a second, obviously searching for satisfactory words. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re so right,” Ren replies, silky smooth, disguised voice suggesting an edge of cruelty, “it won’t.”

The Supreme Leader shoves himself up from where he’s been leaning, menacingly, over the end of the table.

“Take her, get the computational house supporting our forces in order. I expect to hear no further criticism of ‘ _mysticism’_ while your wheelhouse supplies me with incorrect figures.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The man—Domaric, General Quinn—falls silent.

Only a beat passes before Hux cuts in.

“Excuse me, sir, but you must know her insufferable mouth will cause the Council trouble at some point—sooner rather than later, I’d gamble. She has quite the reputation. It precedes her.”

Ayse leans in, glares down the table.

“ _My_ big mouth? What about—”

“I’m well aware of her reputation, General. In fact, _Armitage_ , you might do well to take a note from her playbook. As it turns out, open hostility is easier to dispatch with than hidden scheming.”

Hux pales, falls silent.

Her nostrils flare, and his back. He may outrank her, but she finds that she’s hardly afraid to trade barbs if that’s what he wants to do—

“Perhaps her sharp mouth will keep you all in check. Given that she seems to have no compunction about questioning _anyone_ …”

Ayse stares at her nails, turns both hands over to examine her cuticles.

Another shiver travels up her spine, threatens to make her shake.

She does her best to suppress it.

“Or perhaps she’ll get herself killed.” Somewhere, behind the mask, she can tell that he makes a clicking noise. “Time will tell.”

He rounds the table, travels back over to the opposite end.

“Now,” he says, firmly, extending his right hand. “About our mining operations—”

Gloved fingers flick: a glowing, blue hexagon in the center of the table springs to life, projects a planet which rotates in holographic form—

Ayse grips the edge of the table. Hard.

Her eyes blow wide, knuckles turn white.

Her brows knit together; a little bead of sweat forms there.

Her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, eyes darting quickly from the table to the planet and back.

“Ayse?” Poldin bangs on the table, then, snapping her partially out of the fit, “Ayse? Are you okay?”

She swallows, blinks at him several times.

“What—” she moves her mouth from side to side, tilting her head, “What is that noise?”

Everyone at the table seems to freeze for a moment; a few people trade glances with one another.

“What noise?” Poldin waits a long moment, clearly trying to hear it for himself. “It’s completely silent, Ayse.”

She shakes her head quickly, little tears beading at the corner of her eyes.

“No,” she breathes faster, “no. No. It’s not. That sound—” she searches for the words to describe it, eyes darting between faces which indicate that no one else seems to know what she’s talking about. “That _sound_. Can’t you hear it?”

“Ayse,” Poldin says gently. _God_ , she’s suddenly so glad he’s here— “There’s no noise.”

“Like an earthquake. It sounds like the rumble of an earthquake without the actual shaking. Or extreme wind. Really extreme wind, like an extraterrestrial hurricane on some uninhabitable planet.”

She pauses, brows pressed together in concentration. She only vaguely registers that someone further down the table utters the word _‘insane,’_ only barely registers a small cluster of chuckles.

“It sounds like the deep ocean. Like I’m deep, deep underwater, under thousands of atmospheres of pressure. It’s so cold— _and it just reverberates until it’s all I can hear—and—_ ”

Ren drops his extended hand to his side.

Ayse slumps a little forward.

She catches her breath, lower jaw shaking; she stares at a fixed point on the table.

“It’s gone.”

When she looks up, she sees a mixture of only extreme concern and utter confusion.

“Are—no one else could—?”

“Perhaps you should report to MedBay.”

She whips her head to face Kylo Ren.

An expression of awe and confusion and pain is plastered there. She stares, slack jawed.

“Sir.”

She can hardly leave fast enough.


	19. Confusion

Ayse thumbs, annoyed, at the _Lock_ button on the side of her datapad.

It’s been blowing up ever since the Supreme Leader’s speech—a speech which, like all others, gets immediately blasted around the base in real-time.

Hundreds of messages pour in from former classmates, professors, even some vague acquaintances.

_‘Hey, congrats!’_

_‘WOAH!!!!!’_

_‘????????????????????????????’_

She glances down again, compulsively, just as the blaster doors to the Bridge open again.

> _Justin Parker 1207_
> 
> _Are you okay?_

She stops cold, in place, nearly causing somebody behind her to knock into her.

She doesn’t even attempt to apologize.

_You are typing…_

> _Ayse Holdeag 1347_
> 
> _No_

To her relief, he responds almost immediately.

> _Justin Parker 1347_
> 
> _Where are you?_
> 
> _Ayse Holdeag 1348_
> 
> _Meet me outside the Command staircase in 20_
> 
> _Justin Parker 1348_
> 
> _Will be there._

This time she thumbs at the edge of her datapad for real, swiping up once before locking the screen so it transforms into Do Not Disturb mode.

She only gets halfway across the bridge when she sees him: Ren, ahead of her, looking out the viewport. Even worse, Poldin sits to her left, on her workstation, clearly waiting for her.

She sighs, trudges down into the pit filled with computational engines and weapons controls and makes her way over.

“Ayse—”

_“No.”_

Poldin stands— _why is it that everybody is always fucking taller than she remembers?_ —and grasps both her shoulders. His touch is gentle enough, but he holds firmly.

_Such a Dom._

“We’re going to talk.”

“No, LeHuse, we’re not.” She shoves out of his hold, starts gathering at her papers, starts shoving them into her work bag. “I’m going home.”

“What did MedBay say?”

She tries to wave him off. “Stress headache.”

“Ayse… I don’t think that was a stress headache. A panic attack, maybe. But a stress headache?”

“Yeah? Didn’t know you also had a medical degree on top of your pilot’s license. You’re a busy, busy man, aren’t you?”

He slumps a little against her workstation—her surrounding coworkers have suspiciously but smartly cleared out—and runs a hand over short, clipped hair.

“Ayse, please. Let me help you.”

“— _Don’t need help_ —” she grumbles, brusquely, throwing the last of her materials into her bag. She swings it up, over her shoulder; she turns to make her way over to stomp back up the ramp.

“Do you want me to ping Ben? He could—”

She rounds on him, more viciously than even she meant to.

“Are you _fucking crazy_? Ben is the last motherfucker I want right now.” She huffs, indignant, trying to at least reduce her full shout to half of one.

The entire Bridge stares now. She expected as much; she’s the hot ticket of gossip today.

Well, everyone can suck it.

Even Ren turns, somewhere behind her, presence ominous and looming. She can feel the weight of his eyes again. She always can.

“I’m just trying to help. You need to be with someone right now.”

“Are you _serious_? I don’t need to be with anyone. I don’t _need_ anyone. And, actually, I should probably be alone right now, given that literally everybody seems intent on fucking me and my life up at every turn. But, if you absolutely must know,” she spits, “I already have the male presence thing covered for tonight. So, thanks for your weird damsel-in-distress shit, but I’ve got myself.”

She loops both arms through her bag now, pulls it up onto her back and into place.

“And mind your own fucking business in the future, LeHuse. You’re not my superior, you’re not my boyfriend, and you’re not my fucking daddy.”

A long silence passes. She finds herself increasingly grateful that everyone in the upper Echelon of the Order appears to be prone to throwing tantrums: this isn’t even the worst of the last week.

Ayse does, however, get the very distinct impression that this is going to be A Problem with ‘Cullen’ on Friday.

Hopefully, she can argue her way out of it, since it is so obviously _not_ a club issue—

“Ms. Holdeag. A word.”

Kylo Ren’s voice slides over her the way it usually does, clinging to her skin, making her feel changed somehow. She blanches, resists the urge to flip Poldin off, push him all the way away.

Instead, she turns on one heel, follows like a petulant child on their way to the timeout corner.

The Supreme Leader leads her back to _Vader_ , gesturing once through the blaster doors.

She slides past him, swallowing once.

The doors close behind them.

Heavy footsteps walk up behind her.

“Sit,” he says, only once. The command leaves no room for argument.

She does, taking the chair she sat in only an hour before.

“What, Ms. Holdeag, did MedBay _actually_ say?”

He leans over the table, both gloved hands planted in front of them.

His mask is trained on her.

She looks away; his stare, even behind a helmet, feels too intense.

“I—” she clears her throat, once, not wanting to sound meek. “I didn’t go.”

“I didn’t think so.”

A pause stretches uncomfortably between them.

“I don’t need ‘insane’ added to my permanent file. So,” she adds, by way of explanation, wringing her hands, “I took a walk instead.”

Another pause, briefer this time.

“I see.” Ren straightens up. He begins to walk, slowly, considering, around the conference table. “Close your eyes, Ms. Holdeag.”

She only stares at him in return.

“Excuse me?”

He stops, turns to her. Plants his hands on the table again.

“I said,” he repeats, slower, more deliberate, “Close. Your. Eyes.”

“Look, if you’re about to lightsaber me—”

“Close your eyes, Ayse,” he snaps.

It catches her off guard, not least of which because she thinks this is the first time she’s ever heard him use her first name—

She forces her eyelids down against her better judgement.

“Tell me,” his distorted voice breathes, “if you hear anything.”

She swallows, uncomfortable, shifting in her chair.

She waits—waits for anything.

Nothing comes.

“Anything?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I—? No?”

Ren hums: the noise comes out garbled, inhuman, yet somehow sounds familiar. She can’t quite place it.

“And now?” the voice asks, disembodied, from somewhere to her right.

She swallows just as it hits—

A whirring sound blows into her ears like the very air around her is being torn apart. She hears herself shriek, foreign sounding, as a piercing headache rips through her temples.

Then, just as quickly as it began, it fades.

“I take it you heard something.”

“I—” she gasps, again grabbing the edge of the table. She gulps desperately for air. “Please—”

“And now?”

“No— _please—_ ”

She braces for the impact of it, braces to feel all alone again, lost in the enormity of it all—

But nothing comes.

Her heart beats.

“Well?”

Ayse gulps. She shakes her head.

“No.” A pause. “Nothing.”

She opens her eyes after a long moment passes. He says nothing, only carries himself with heavy footfalls further around the table, to the head on the far right. He walks over to the viewport spanning the aft end of the room.

“…Well?” she asks expectedly.

“Trust that it won’t happen again.”

She makes a small, strangled noise of mixed confusion and objection in her throat. “Aren’t you going to… _so you know_ …?” She sighs, presses her hands to her temples, rubbing at the veins there. “Are you going to explain?”

When Ren turns, whatever contemplative demeanor he wore mere seconds ago has vanished.

“I don’t recall needing to answer to anyone.”

Ayse frowns, swallows her rising objection.

She sets her jaw, folds her arms over her chest.

“So… am I… dismissed?”

“You have a great deal of influence now,” he says, seemingly content to completely ignore her as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Many officers would give anything to have what you do.”

“Well,” she hedges, biting at her cheek, “I never asked for it.”

“You beg constantly for attention. Now you have it. Congratulations.”

“I’m sure you would find it more pleasing, _My Lord_ , to listen to all those who would rather take my place.”

The Supreme Leader turns.

The visor tilts to one side. “Listening only to voices that want to be heard is never wise.”

“How very poetic of you.” She raises a hand to her mouth, unconsciously moving to bite at one nail. “I don’t understand why I’m here.”

“Well, not everything is for you to understand. What you need to do is _obey_.”

She shoots a glare down the table, then quickly retracts it.

She sighs into her hand, eyes a cuticle which needs trimming.

“I barely know what you ask of me.”

“You seem to have a particular talent for getting on nerves. Keep Quinn—and the others—from getting too complacent.” He waves a hand. “Use your obnoxious eye for petty detail.”

Her brows jolt together before relaxing: that’s a backhanded compliment if she’s ever heard one.

“There are people better suited to this appointment.”

“Thank you for your candor,” he says a little snidely.

She grimaces.

“There are people who—”

“My decisions are final. I have made my decision.”

She falls bitterly silent.

“Now,” he starts, pacing back towards her, “Go home. Get rest. Or—that’s _right_ —run along to your little tryst.”

“S’not a tryst,” she hisses, “and that’s also none of your business.”

Kylo Ren plants gloved hands on the sides of the high-backed chair she sits in.

He whips it around, with stunning ease, so that she faces him.

“Everything that happens within the Order is my business. Especially,” he spits, seemingly through gritted teeth, “that which is shouted on my Bridge.”

The smirk spreads across her face before she can help it.

“You’re jealous,” she breathes dangerously.

It was _indeed_ dangerous, she learns, when a gloved hand rears back and slaps her across the face.

It stings—really stings—and she can feel the skin there heating to a bright pink.

Fingers snake under her jaw, smooth leather pressing against your chin. One large thumb smooths over the mark left on her cheek.

If she closed her eyes, zoned out a little, it might’ve felt a little bit tender—might’ve felt like something straight out of the club, but—

No.

This was Kylo Ren.

There was nothing gentle about his touch, no sentiment behind the action.

“Learn your place. Beneath me.”

She finds herself breathing faster. She gazes up into the eyeless void of the mask above her.

“Hierarchically, or physically?”

She thinks she hears a chuckle before his other hand slaps her face again.

Both cheeks burn.

Badly.

“Brave, acerbic girl. Do you ever think before you speak?”

Leather-clad fingers dig into either side of her throat.

She wonders, vaguely, why the manual strangulation when he usually uses the Force—

“That would take the fun out of it,” she manages, raspy voice sounding not fully her own.

He lets go a moment later; she sputters forward slightly, clutching at her throat, blood rushing back into her head.

“You’re a little spitfire, Ayse. Do take care not to burn yourself too badly.”

It feels like the air leaves the room with him when the Blaster doors close behind him.

_Hell._

_What was that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regularly scheduled pornography coming up next.


	20. Clarifications

Rhea catches the thin strap as it falls down her arm, dragging it up and setting it back on her shoulder.

She kneels in the trainee line-up, always the last to be assessed. She hardly minds that, though: she gets in trouble the most, so at least going last affords her a bit of relative privacy.

A light slip falls over her body, stopping over her upper thighs. It’s light pink, flowy—makes her feel a little feminine, a rare feeling when you work with nearly all men. It’s comfortable, too: lets everything breathe, lets her breathe, helps her feel a little less panicked.

She made sure it was sheer, of course, and she wears nothing underneath. She doesn’t need to give any of the picky Doms an excuse to disapprove.

Master Cullen walks down the line, issuing corrections and compliments as usual.

She’s tried not to dread this moment for the entire length of the work week. She hasn’t succeeded. Truthfully, she’s thought a lot about what to say since they last exchanged words in ‘real life.’

_You can’t control me at work._

_Sir, please don’t intervene outside of the club._

_Look here, you right bastard—_

Shined shoes stop in front of her, her head bowed. Her line of sight is mostly comprised of the floor. She figures that maybe if she starts off respectful, that may soften the blow of her inevitable spiral downward into brat territory—

“I do believe we need to talk.”

His voice is masculine, even. The thought of sassing him licks her insides with guilt, but she can’t have him asserting himself in her workplace, even if he is only trying to do the Dom thing and be helpful all the time, everywhere.

She leans back on her heels, raises her gaze. He’s one of the few Masters who never seems to implement the common no-eye-contact rule.

Cullen meets her eyes. She can see the familiar twinge of regret mirrored in his.

She grimaces.

“Don’t we?” he prompts.

“Yes, Sir.”

She closes her mouth. It seems wiser—and more satisfying—to make him say his piece first.

He folds his arms like he knows what she’s doing.

“Okay, then. Well, you have a bad habit of pushing people away. I suppose there’s nothing I can really do about it if you want to continue to do that in your professional life— _though I don’t recommend it_ —but you do need to know what I won’t allow it to happen here. Do you understand?”

_Damn. Straight to the jugular._

Rhea tries not to pull a face. “Yes, Sir.”

Several long moments of silence pass; she stares up at him, he stares down at her, neither willing to break their gaze.

She’s the one who eventually folds with a little exasperated sigh. She breaks the quiet. “You can’t punish me for something that happened outside of the club.”

“No, I can’t. But I can register my opinion and I can certainly train you to act better. Pushing people away is unbecoming of a submissive. No one will tolerate that behavior here.”

“Well,” she quips, also folding her arms, “consider your opinion registered.”

Cullen’s tone changes, goes cold.

“Uncross your arms, submissive. And don’t take that tone with me.”

She does, automatically, no thought required. It irks her that she cooperates so instantly, especially in the middle of an argument. She hesitates, considers re-crossing them just to make a point.

She doesn’t.

“I think I’ve been very patient with you, Rhea,” he continues, “but that well of patience is running out. You’re new, and I’ve gone gentle on you. But it’s also become abundantly clear that you’re strong-willed to the point of often being pig-headed.”

She sucks on her cheek, makes herself swallow.

“Ben’s noticed it. I’ve noticed it. Truthfully, Rhea? There are Doms here who would never scene with you because of it.”

Her eyes grow hot; tears sting at her waterlines, but she holds them back, sniffling once instead.

“They don’t know what they’re missing.”

Cullen huffs once, likely the byproduct of suppressing a chuckle or some similar reaction.

“That might be so. But do the rest of us a favor: don’t repay us for believing in you by spitting in our faces.”

She sucks her cheek into her mouth, lets it go. “I don’t mean to.”

He shoots her a pointed look.

“I don’t _always_ mean to.”

“Better.”

He starts to pace in a line in front of her. Her eyes flick down to the polished shoes: uncommon for Cullen, more formal than he usually is. Then they follow up the seams of his pants—slacks, black—to an off-white casual dress shirt. He’s a weird mix of things, she thinks: one of the rare Doms who oscillates in an unpredictable band between BDSM leathers and everyday streetwear. There’s something about him, broadly, that’s hard to pin down with any great degree of precision.

“Well,” he says, finally stopping so that he’s centered in front of her again. She continues to stare at his loafers. “Consider this your first and last warning. I suppose there’s little I can do to intercede if you want to be obstinate on the Council—and we _should_ talk about the Council another time—but it won’t fly here. I’ve told the other Masters to watch out for this behavior and to _reacquaint themselves_ with you if they find you inappropriately distancing yourself.”

_Shit._

Rhea clears her throat, bites at her lower lip before releasing it.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

A pause. “Yes, Sir.”

“Look at me. Use my name.”

She frowns slightly, wipes it off her face before she can give him more ammunition. She meets his eyes again. “Yes, Master Cullen.”

His lips press into a bit of a line, jump to one side of his face. Considering. Conflicted. She can tell that he probably wants to be a little warmer than he’s being, to reach out and give comfort. It seems to be in his nature: one of the most jovial Doms, but nevertheless not to be crossed.

Something in her cheek jumps, too. It doesn’t feel fun to be in this position with him. Especially since she knows he’s only trying to help— _as obnoxious as that is_ —

“I’m sorry,” she kind of blurts out. It’s not the graceful apology that a trainee should give—that any other trainee _would_ give. But it’s honest, the kind of thing that she needs to get off her chest. “I don’t even want to fight with you.”

He, for his part, looks a little pained. “I know. So, don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be. That’s the goal of being here, isn’t it? To surrender. Take your mind off things.”

She swallows: it’s a little too knowing for comfort.

“That doesn’t happen passively, Rhea,” he says. “Submission is never passive. No one here is going to wrest it from you: that wouldn’t be domination, that would be rape—or something close. It’s a choice. You have to give it if you want this to work.”

She nods but looks at the ground again. It’s annoying when other people are right.

“I’m trying. I’ll try.”

It comes out in a tiny, little voice. A half-broken whisper. She finds herself annoyed, too, at just how small she sounds.

“We’re going to be together tonight,” he adds, an admission which gets her eyes back on him immediately, “and I want you to be on your best behavior for me.” Rhea takes a deep breath as if its an impossible task. “Think of it as a challenge. You’re good with challenges. Perhaps to try see how _good_ you can be for a change.”

“I’m going to disappoint you.”

There it is: the tiny voice. Real vulnerability.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

This time, when he speaks, it’s softer. Gentler. He speaks like he believes in her more than she does.

That might even be the case.

“And all the Doms you said would never be interested—”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Put them out of your mind. You can’t please everyone.”

“But—”

“Look:” he cups her face between two large palms. She finds the closeness—the warmth—almost unnerving. She fights the immediate urge to pull herself away. “Most of us can handle a bit of brat. What no one wants it a brat who can never ever be tamed.”

He swallows, again mulling something over. “There’s a fair bit of interest in you, actually. Nevertheless, a lot of those matches depend on your future behavior. So do take what I’ve said to heart.”

She swallows, hard, face still between his hands.

“Sir.”

“Speaking of that interest, there is actually one other thing to discuss—”

He squats; it reminds her all-too-suddenly of Ben. She finds herself pulling back slightly from the added intimacy of it.

If he notices, he doesn’t react.

“You mentioned that you had male company on Monday.”

Rhea blushes, instantly primes herself to get defensive. He clarifies before she has the chance to tank her waning reserve of behavior points again.

“I’ve found that most relationships here end up spilling out into the outside world. It’s not uncommon for a real relationship to actually be one of a Dom or sub’s primary goals while looking for a match here. So, I have to ask: are you attached already? If so, I should let those interested parties know.”

Her brows jump together, then apart again.

She sets her jaw.

“No, Sir.”

“No?”

She shakes her head, again blinking back stupid tears.

“No. He’s a friend from school. He fed me crackers in the student lounge while I cried. And he listened to me bitch. And eventually he walked me back to my quarters, and that was it.” She takes a breath, presses her eyes closed. “I can’t imagine I’d get involved with him. I’m trying not to torpedo his life, which is what would inevitably happen.”

“I see,” Cullen responds. “Does he know that?”

She frowns up at the man. “I’m not—” she looks away, sniffs, looks back. “I’m not taking advantage of him. He knows who I am. _How_ I am.” She waves her hand once. “I don’t know why he sticks around. Dumbest thing he’s ever done.”

She thumbs away a tear.

Master Cullen tilts his head to one side.

“Some people are worth being around even when you can’t be with them.”

It’s sweet, and it _hurts_ : it fans the licks of guilt that seared her insides earlier. She finds herself having to suppress a pathetic little mewl, having to suppress the urge to simultaneously break down and melt into his arms.

“M’sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, standing. He extends a hand, closes it around hers when she gives it willingly.

He helps her up, then pulls her into him. He places one hand on the back of her head, uses the other to rub lightly between her shoulder blades.

She thinks she feels him press a chaste kiss to the crown of her head, somewhere in her hair.

“Just give into the urge to be good.”


	21. Unfamiliar

The first hint of trouble comes when she sees the medical-themed playroom up ahead.

“Woah,” she tugs on his arm and stops in her tracks, dragging her feet, submissiveness be damned. “Medical play is on my list of hard limits.”

Cullen looks over his shoulder, one brow raised in question. “I know that,” he gestures, right hand holding up the clipboard with her paperwork.

“Then…”

“There’s more you can do in a medical room than strictly medical play.”

“I…” she hesitates. She doesn’t like the look of the examination table _at all_.

“Typically, submissives don’t question their Dominants so brusquely.” His mouth thins into a line. “I’d like you to put your hand back on my arm and continue following.”

It’s worded like a request—polite—but his tone makes it clear that it isn’t one. She’s two inches from stepping out of line and incurring a punishment.

She closes her mouth, barely resists the urge to set her jaw. She does as asked— _told_ —and wraps her right hand back around his left forearm. Something within jumps at her touch, muscles flexing under skin.

“Good.” At least he acknowledges the effort it takes. “Come.”

She follows wordlessly the rest of the way, though she’s sure her face is less neutral. She can’t help but regard the table, equipped with stainless steel stirrups, with a mix of apprehensive fear and slight disgust.

Nothing that reminds her of a pap smear could ever be sexy.

Master Cullen pats the edge of the table—a light blue pleather just like most MedBay tables, similarly covered over in a swath of disposable paper—signaling that she should hop up.

“Sit.”

She does, turning slowly before obeying fully. She gazes out into the much dimmer, broader room which hosts two rows of chairs for relaxing, chatting—or watching. She watches with mild annoyance as a few stragglers sip their drinks while looking her way.

She definitely makes a face at them in some parallel universe somewhere. In this one, though, Cullen asked that she be good and was even sort of nice about it, so she suppresses a huff and tries to acquiesce.

“Lay down.”

He moves off to the side of her, opens a cabinet nearby.

“Let me guess,” she asks, trying to keep her tone firmly in the territory of mildly snarky and not overtly rude, “butt off the end of this thing?”

He turns, grin carved into his features. “You’ve got it.”

She gives him a look she thinks she can get away with and pushes her ass just off the end of the table, managing to keep her legs together for now. She’s sure that’s about to change.

She lays down, hears a bit of tearing in the paper somewhere beneath her as she readjusts.

The room is colder than most of the others—probably because there’s only one station, and they’re alone, separated from the rest of the club and its stations by a step up onto the medical room platform.

The room carries that classic sterile smell, a mix of the alcohol of hand sanitizer and the scent of bleach.

The lights overhead are more white than warm, clinical and harsh like most medical offices. They flirt with bothering her eyes. She resolves to look off to the side instead, thin paper absorbing and reflecting the heat of her cheek within seconds.

Master Cullen turns around with a set of bowls nested together. He fills one, the largest, with water from the sink underneath the cabinets. Then he takes hold of a bottle, some kind of aerosol-looking canister, and shakes it several times. He presses down on the button at the top, piping out a substance that’s fluffy and white and—

 _“Oh no.”_ She says it so automatically, so reflexively, that she actually chokes on a bit of self-deprecating laughter. That wasn’t supposed to be said out loud—

Cullen, of course, turns to raise both brows. “Excuse me?”

Rhea finds that the small, confused smile on her face—amusement and horror combined—won’t go away. “I—” she starts, glancing between the bowls and the razors in his other hand, “I can do that myself if you prefer, _uhm_ , a different look.”

“Thank you for offering.” He turns his back to her again, messing with something else. “That won’t be necessary.”

“But—”

He turns again, squares his shoulders, gives her the death glare of a Dom who is done being questioned.

She falls silent.

God _, he’s scary when his patience runs out._

“Lose that word from your vocabulary.”

“I—?”

“Along with ‘no.’”

She stares a little open-mouthed. Flustered.

“I— _god_ , you’re being so much like Ben.”

“ _Master_ Ben, Rhea. Is that supposed to be an insult?” He cocks his head to one side now, deadly. She’s probably on the verge of getting a spanking. “Ben is an exceptional Dominant.”

“I…” she chooses the words carefully, “just thought your style was… different.”

He considers her just as carefully. “Bad news: all Dominants are dominant.”

She scowls.

He whacks the outside of her leg for it.

“Ow!”

“That was light,” he says, pointing a figure in warning. “And our styles _are_ different. Ben probably would’ve shoved you back into your place by now. I’d prefer it if you’d find that place yourself.” The line of his mouth squirms before settling. “Whether you will is a different question entirely.”

He sounds almost disappointed, which twists at her heart for the briefest moment. Then she sets her eyes back on the shaving materials and all sympathy vanishes.

Master Cullen waits for a long moment.

“Are you done acting out?”

His tone is even. It isn’t a rebuke; it’s a simple question. _Can we move on now?_

Rhea swallows.

“Yes, Sir.”

She lays back down from where she’d propped herself up on her arms.

“And?”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Thank you. Try harder to keep it that way.”

She lets her lungs fill with air, focuses on feeling it all rush out of her nose to avoid making another series of displeasing expressions.

Cullen places the materials on a stainless-steel tray, which he swivels over to the end of the table along with a padded stool.

“Legs apart, in the stirrups.”

She chews her cheek again; she knew this was coming, it isn’t a surprise. Still, her legs feel heavy as lead as she parts them.

He catches one ankle, then the other, guiding her into the stirrups. Unlike the ones found in legitimate medical practices, these come equipped with additional restraints, which he quickly closes around her ankles.

He does the same with the rest of her body, closing restraints over her hips, over her waist, under her breasts and just beneath her shoulders. He makes sure she can barely move—she can’t—before apparently deciding to leave her hands free.

_Small comfort._

“I could have just stayed still.”

Cullen responds with a look of skepticism.

“I want you tied down. And, if you move at an inopportune time, you can cut yourself.”

Rhea just chews her lip as he moves back down her body, back down to where he stands between her legs.

She’s managed to ignore them—the onlookers—pretty effectively until now. Having her knees spread like this isn’t too far off what one might see in any other playroom. She does her best to let it go, to tamp down the shame, and manages to succeed until Cullen wraps his hands around both heels and pushes upwards.

 _Way_ upwards.

Her mouth falls open as he pushes her legs way up in the air, allowing only a slight bend at her knees.

There’s no dignity in this position—there’s no way to hide _anything_ from _anyone_ watching.

The fiery hot mix of shame, embarrassment, and rage courses through her veins in record speed. She opens her mouth to cuss him out and—

“Think long and hard about what you’re about to say to me.”

He holds one hand up, pressed forward as if trying to placate her with the gesture.

_Stop._

She can feel her nostrils flaring, something jumping in her jaw. Still, she tries. She blinks rapidly, sucking on the roof of her mouth to keep from cursing him out.

“I think about long and hard things all the time.”

It’s a desperate attempt at deflection, one made through clenched teeth, and she can see that he knows it. Still, he laughs. It feels good to hear that sound— _so good_ —

“Can you convert whatever you were about to say into something more informative?” he asks through a smirk.

It’s gentle, steady advice. Good advice, honestly. Very annoying how these too-confident men seem to often know what they’re actually doing—

“I feel…” he prompts.

Rhea swallows.

“I feel… super exposed. Really uncomfortably exposed. Embarrassed. Afraid. Ashamed.”

Cullen rubs up her thigh, spreads his thumb out and smooths over the skin there.

“I know,” he says. “Sometimes boundaries need to be pushed. You have your safeword if you need it. Since you have that bad habit of pushing people away, Rhea, I’m going to make you open up to me.” He glances between her legs. “Literally, if I have to.”

She screws her eyes shut for a moment, squeezes them. She can’t bare to imagine the people who must surely be watching now. Spread open with her knees bent was one thing, but spread in a V with her legs completely in the air feels like something else entirely—

She almost feels like crying, which she thinks is ridiculous, really. She has so far survived a First Order takeover of her shithole home planet, differential equations and beyond, and the Supreme Leader’s own fury. Why should laying on a table, on display, make her feel so emotionally bare?

 _Weak._ It makes her feel _weak_.

When she opens her eyes, she finds she can barely look at him for more than a second or two. There’s nothing to say, and holding his gaze is uncomfortable. Everything feels too much splayed out like this.

“Rhea.” It makes her look back at him, if only briefly. “No one’s going to watch if they don’t like what they see. Consider thinking of the crowd as a group of admirers.”

“Admiring you, maybe,” she mutters, face flushed.

“Maybe. But mostly you. I’m not much of an attraction in comparison, especially not with all my clothes on.”

It’s a compliment—she knows that—but it feels strangely backhanded, just as many compliments here do. It underscores the fact that he’s the one with all the control and that she has none of it. Everything gets filtered through his values, his lens, his perspective.

She knows she should stay quiet—let what’s going to happen, happen—but finds she can’t quite stay emotionally still for that long.

“So… you’re unhappy with my appearance. Sir.”

Cullen looks up from where he was rearranging something on the tray.

“No.” He looks down, between her legs, to the tuft of hair there, and back. “Hair is only natural, and it grows back. Simply trying something new. Have you ever had a bare pussy before, Rhea?”

She swallows.

“I didn’t like it.”

“Because?”

She takes a breath.

“Too sensitive. And, I don’t know, after having hair for so long—it just felt…” her cheeks grow red again, “uncomfortably wet. All the time.”

Master Cullen smirks, which makes her wish she could hit him. “I think _sensitive_ and _wet_ are exactly what we’re going for in this kind of environment.”

She folds her arms over her body even though the straps inhibit her full range of motion. It feels good to make a point anyway.

“And being completely shaved makes me feel like a child. Which I hate, _Sir_.”

Cullen stops then, hums to himself for a moment. He tilts his head one way, then the other. “Fair enough. I’ll leave a strip for you.”

This is the part where she’s supposed to thank him; she knows it is. He waits patiently for what he’s owed.

Rhea tries not to scowl outright.

“Thank you, Sir.”

He just nods.

He wheels the stool directly between her legs, sits down, drags the tray so it sits right next to him.

She wonders idly if every week will involve some Dom spreading her legs and staring directly at her vagina. Seems a too-common occurrence.

She keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling for a long while, preferring to fall quiet than continue to press her luck with a Dom at the edge of his patience. She focuses on breathing steadily, on not looking down at him, instead preferring to count the tiles above and reorder their patterns in her brain.

It’s only when he’s trimmed her hair down and applied a cream that she glances down.

“Don’t move, please. You should be restrained well enough, but still. Bloodplay is on your list of hard limits, and I’d like to honor that.”

Rhea sets her jaw so another snappy comment doesn’t fall out before she can help it. He raises the razor—it scrapes lightly at her skin—and—

Her eyes look out into the crowd for the first time and gravitate immediately to _him_.

She nearly groans, managing to stop herself at the very last second.

Where other onlookers are cast mostly in the shadows of the dimmer room beyond, she can see Master Ben clearly. He’s up near the front, one hand in the pocket of dark pants, sipping slowly from a glass she suspects contains whiskey.

He notices her as much as she notices him, of course. He nods, once, annoyingly slow, completely resolute in his ability to hold her attention. She finds she can’t look away—not really—not even as his eyes leave hers. They move down, slow, unhurried in that characteristic way of his. She can practically feel when he stops at her breasts, nipples poking through the thin fabric of the slip just slightly. She can feel his gaze sliding down her stomach and, eventually, searing his view of her pussy into sensitive skin.

She squirms in the restraints; Cullen commands her to be still again.

He hasn’t looked up, thank god, too absorbed in the task of shaving her mound and labia bare—or mostly bare, anyways.

She glances back at Ben almost compulsively.

He looks back, unwavering, apparently entirely unbothered.

It’s infuriating, really, how he thinks he has the _right_ —

She frowns, tries to deepen the intensity of her own stare as if she can somehow goad him into a fight. He quirks an eyebrow, observant, but otherwise doesn’t react. He just watches, eyes dipping down between her legs, back up, back down again.

Teasing her. He’s _teasing_ her.

No: _taunting_.

It makes her grow hot in the face all over again, even as she’s keenly aware—and peeved—that this new flush isn’t wholly derived from anger.

There’s something different about the way he looks at her; there always is. His gaze carries an extra weight to it, some kind of added majesty, like he knows something about her that even she doesn’t. The other Doms see her—see all of her, in some cases—but Ben seems to see _through_ her somehow.

He watches intently, watches even as the razor moves lower to remove the scant hair around her anus. It feels obscene—not only to be spread-eagled like this, but for someone to watch everything so closely, so boldly, as if he has every right to.

“Cool water.”

Rhea _jumps_ , trance broken. She closes her mouth—apparently it had been slightly open—and wrenches her eyes back to Cullen. He’s stood, just a little, brows pulled slightly together.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, Sir. I… drifted off somewhere.”

He nods as if that’s perfectly normal. When he sits, he picks up a towel and wipes gently at slightly reddened skin, cooling tender spots.

She mewls something involuntary when warm hands start to rub some kind of after-shave into her skin. So, so sensitive. She tries to cant her hips, tries to pull away; nothing works. Master Cullen is inescapable in all ways but one.

She looks between him and Ben. 

It feels like a betrayal— _maybe_ —to find her focus so drawn to another man when one is between her legs. She tries—truly tries—to look down now, to look only at Cullen.

That is, naturally, when she notices it: he’s shaped a small heart from the hair he so graciously left at the top of her slit.

“Are you _serious_?” she hisses.

“Excuse me?” Both eyebrows up again, daring her to step any further out of line.

“You can’t be fucking serious.”

Master Cullen grins like a playful frat boy on some other planet, even as its clear he won’t tolerate the backtalk.

“What did you say to me, submissive?”

“A heart?! A _heart_. You’re un-fucking-real.” She jams her body against the restraints: they don’t budge. She tries to kick out, manages to extend both knees a little, make the spreader bars rattle. Still, she doesn’t make much progress.

She does, however, hear the distinctive laughter of those watching.

Little flames of mischief dance in his eyes, even as he simultaneously manages to look nothing short of deadly.

He says nothing—she finds out soon enough that complete silence is more unnerving than verbal sparring.

Cullen sighs, mostly to himself, somewhere deep in his chest.

“Well, I suppose we can skip to Plan C, then…”

She hardly has time to argue when she feels both his thumbs on her, parting her so her inner folds are exposed to his view.

“Hey—” she tries to kick again, “it’s _my_ pussy—”

He smirks in that trademark way of his. In any other situation, it might’ve looked handsome. But now?

“Look at you,” he murmurs, hint of admonishment in his tone, eyes surveying up her body, “you haven’t even convinced yourself.”

She’s close to hurling her next choice insult when she feels it: the flat of his tongue against her clit.

He isn’t gentle; it’s too much for her freshly shaved skin— _too much_ —

She slaps the side of the table, chokes with the need to draw air into her lungs.

“ _Nuh_ — _no_ —”

The words come out breathy, gasping, barely comprehensible. Cullen doesn’t respond. He merely swipes his tongue firmly up and down her clit, rhythm constant, putting her body on the fast track to come.

She would’ve thought it was ironic if she had the mental capacity to really think about it: she’s always sworn she doesn’t like having her pussy eaten. Turns out she’s just never experienced it with someone any _good_ at it. 

If the way she usually makes herself come represents good, then Cullen must be _great_ , because her legs start shaking far earlier than she ever manages to make them. They rattle the rods holding her limbs in the air, making a metal clanging noise that would’ve embarrassed her lots if she was still fully lucid.

Just when she reaches the edge—when it feels inevitable that she’ll go over, when she starts crying out in a desperate whimper she’s never heard before—he pulls away.

_“—augh—”_

She heaves, breathless, entire body aching. She can feel her heartbeat in her clit.

Pounding.

Angry.

Rhea stares, open-mouthed, in the abject shock of being brought to the precipice of coming with such speed and just _left_ there.

She wants to yell—wants to ask if he’s _fucking serious_ again—but no words come out.

Master Cullen licks his lips— _lewd_ —and stands. He braces his broader body over hers, arms balancing on either side of her waist.

“Still think this pussy is yours?”

Her voice fails her: she can only stare, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling with the weight of the viscous mix of frustration and need.

She receives a hard pinch to her inner thigh.

“Your answer?”

“I—?” It’s like her brain checks out for a long moment. She blinks up at him until she finds a moment of clarity. “I underestimated you.”

He nods only once. “Yes, you did.”

Then he dips back down between her legs and, before she can get the slew of begging fully out of her mouth, she feels his own back on her.

She cries out, making a noise which sounds very pain-adjacent even though it’s from the rush of harsh pleasure.

She grasps the edge of the table, knuckles going white from the strain. She tries to regulate her breathing, tries to breathe through her teeth, but every effort ends in frustrated huffing, in gasping to fill her lungs back up with air.

Rhea tenses her calves—there’s no doubt she’ll have sore ones tomorrow—and curls her toes involuntarily, making up for the inability to move her hips or, really, anything else.

“Ple— _please_ —”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t rise to give her a chance to truly beg—nothing. He tortures her for several long moments longer before she feels herself peaking again, hips pulling hard at the strip of leather holding them down.

She knows what’s coming, tries to force herself over before he can pull away and ruin it. She screws her eyes shut with the effort; a string of obscenities makes up the entirety of her internal monologue.

His tongue slides off her clit just as she thinks she’s going to push past the event horizon of orgasm—

She makes a sound she’s never heard before, smacks the side of the table in burning frustration again. She has never, _never_ been loud, would’ve found it completely humiliating if he didn’t have her quite so distracted.

Rhea pants, thin sheet of sweat covering her body. She tries to catch her breath. She tries to slow the rapid heating of her heart and the burning between her legs and over her cheeks.

_“Please.”_

“Please what.”

She knows the answer as well as if she was lifting directly from a script.

“Please, Sir, let me come.”

Master Cullen looks her steadily in the eyes.

“No.”

It’s not what she expects; her head falls back a little from where she’d had it slightly raised, rests completely on the table now. She blinks up at the ceiling, stomach churning from disappointment.

“Frustrated?”

She glances down at him, across her stomach, beads of frustration forming in her eyes. She can’t help but grit her teeth.

“Yes.”

“This is how you make Doms feel, Rhea, when you act all tempting but then refuse to submit.”

She swallows, chin wobbling.

“Terrible to get so close to something wonderful and then have it ripped away from you, isn’t it?”

The words themselves might have sounded full of resentment on paper, but he delivers them evenly. It’s a lesson: she knows it, even if its being administered as punishment.

She clears her throat, tries to force her vocal cords steady before answering. “Yes, Sir.”

“And whose pussy is this?” he repeats.

He doesn’t touch her, which somehow makes it all feel even worse.

“Yours, Sir. Yours. Yours.”

It tumbles out: there’s no way she’s doing that again. Any more torture and she’ll be screaming, and she _refuses_ to let half the club witness that, too. 

She swears she sees a hint of a smirk form on Cullen’s lips. Suddenly the Dom’s sense of humor is less charming than it seemed before.

“Right.”

Rhea coughs to clear the phlegm from her throat. She lays her head back again, eyes drifting back to ceiling tiles, accepting her helplessness.

What she doesn’t expect to hear—and what she hears _next_ —is the clink of a belt.

It shakes her back to lucidity, makes her try to sit up.

There, at the end of the table, between her legs, Master Cullen is shedding his pants.

_God._

She might have wished for this moment—maybe even begged—some other time, in her dreams, or in a tender moment between them.

Now, though? There’s something terrifying about it.

There’s something about the thought of being almost completely immobilized—something about the loneliness of the room, something about how sterile it all feels—that makes her start to panic.

Her heart rate quickens as she hears the telltale tear of a condom somewhere obscured by her thigh.

She watches him sheath himself and— _god, he’s big, shit_ —and it registers that she’s about to be fucked.

She’s about to be fucked in this cold, cold room, and he’s so far away from her, all the way at the end of the table, and, and, and—

She feels the thick head of a cock slick through her folds, up to her clit, where the nudge of him against her further mixes panicked fear with more pleasurable feelings.

She’s confused— _so confused_ —and then she feels pressure at her entrance, and—

“Yellow.”

She barely hears it come out of her own mouth.

Even though she hears her own voice, it barely registers that she’s said it.

It obviously registers with him, though, because he stops immediately and moves around the edge of the table.

One hand grasps around her waist; the other cups the side of her face.

“Hey.” He waits for a response. He taps her cheek. “Hey. What’s going on?”

He’s gentle—his voice is gentle.

Her head lulls slightly; she feels a little out of it.

The most searing part of the panic cools, the weight of it rising off her chest so she can start to breathe again.

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.”

She swallows.

“I—I just started panicking. Sorry.”

She scrunches her brows together in confusion.

She’s had sex plenty of times before, and she knows he likes her even if he’s frustrated now, even with the little bit of disappointment he wears on his sleeve—

“It’s okay. What else are you feeling?”

He strokes at the side of her face.

“I—I just—” she stops for a moment, takes a second to think. “It just felt too… impersonal. Unfamiliar.” Her brows knit even more tightly together. “I don’t know. I don’t understand.”

He pats a shoulder gently. “That’s okay. You don’t have to understand.”

Master Cullen reaches over, starts undoing her restraints.

“Oh—you don’t have to—you don’t have to _stop_ —”

“I’m not,” he cuts in, giving her a smile. It warms something within her belly. “Just trying something else.”

She nods, wordlessly, trusting him.

He undoes each restraint, guides her legs back down so that they hang off the edge of the table.

He instructs her to tense and then relax each muscle group.

It helps—a lot—and soon the last tendrils of invading panic start fading away.

“Hmm. Impersonal and unfamiliar.”

Cullen scratches at the shadow of stubble on his face, down near his chin. His mouth moves, then he nods to himself.

She just watches, calmer now, smoothing her palms down her outer thighs, wiping sweat away.

She doesn’t even turn her head to follow his gaze when he first turns his. It’s only when he nods his head upwards in a signal which can only mean ‘come here’ that she follows his eyes.

She watches what seems like slow-motion tape as Master Ben hands his glassware off to someone else, turns, and— _oh god_ —saunters over in that signature gait of his.

Rhea looks between Cullen and Ben, Ben and Cullen.

The men exchange glances, nods. Ben slaps the other Dom on the back in that way friendly men do.

Then those brown eyes turn on her.

“Hello again.”


	22. 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM TRYING TO MOVE THIS ALONG I SWEAR
> 
> also this is part of a much larger chapter I guess but it felt excessive to post like 8k words at once SO

Rhea stares, mouth agape, for several long seconds.

“Um. Hi.”

It takes a moment, but she eventually shakes her head on pure instinct: she doesn’t need to be told that there’s no way that will fly.

“Hello, Sir.”

Master Ben turns his head in Cullen’s direction, but his eyes stay trained on her.

She resists the urge to shiver from the intensity of his focus.

“What’s going on here?” A small smirk curves the end of his lips.

“Was about to fuck and she started to panic. Yellowed out.” Master Cullen strokes the skin just above one knee. Gentle. _Thank god._ “Said it felt a little too impersonal and unfamiliar in the moment.”

The taller of the two shifts his weight. The expression he wears morphs, becomes more serious. Cullen looks over at him.

“You’re the most familiar to her of anyone here. Thought you could bring that personal touch.”

Ben nods once, up and down, slow. He glances back at her, roves his eyes over her body and up to meet hers. He holds her gaze there, steady. He’s searching for something.

This time a little shiver of vulnerability gets to her. She tenses her muscles, tries to disguise it as best she can.

Something in his cheek jumps; perhaps he’s found whatever he’s looking for.

“I’d be happy to.”

He steps forward and around the table just as Cullen steps back. The latter man shucks the condom, reaches for a new one. He’s lost part of his erection, and of course he has: it would be jarring if he stayed fully hard through the beginnings of a panic attack.

Master Ben comes to a stop by her left hip, hands in pockets. His eyes sweep over her again, this time more measured, more observant.

“How are you feeling?”

She bites the inside of her cheek briefly. She can’t really explain it: he just carries a web of energy around him. It would be so much easier to ignore it all—to ignore him—if he were just a rude bastard all the time, no frills, no nuance. Nothing pulling her closer to him.

“I’m okay.” She clears her throat of the phlegm making her sound smaller, more restrained than she really is. “Thanks.”

He nods, considering. “Mhm hm.” His head cocks slightly to one side. “You can take more time if you need it.”

She doesn’t need time to consider the offer. Taking too long a break from the scene would only spike her anxiety. She can’t bear to just lay there and _think_ about it all for too long.

“I’m fine.”

He nods once. Either side of his jaw flexes.

He reaches out—its so confusing, how she simultaneously wants to lean into his touch and also jump off the other side of the table—and long fingers grasp at the fabric of her slip.

He tugs twice.

“This is pretty.”

The surprise of it has her picking up her head to glance down as if she couldn’t remember her own garment.

“Oh.” The word forms its very shape in her lips, which stay that way for a long moment. “I’m…” she shakes her head as if to clear it, “there’s so much fabric.”

Ben chuckles.

Rhea suppresses the squirm, how she wants to curl into the noise, pull it like a warm blanket over her body.

She stops, catches herself. Her brows knit together even as she doesn’t notice.

“It’s sheer. You might as well be naked.” His gaze doubles over her body again. “I’ll never object to naked.”

He smirks, maybe a little fondly, when she shivers again.

He seems to know exactly how he affects her, which is doubly annoying given that she can’t seem to find the same words for herself.

Cullen strokes his length somewhere off to the left of her. He works patiently to harden himself again, gives the two others a wide berth to—

 _Well, what_ are _they doing?_

“Stand for a moment.”

She blinks up at the Dom, at the dark cable-knit sweater fitted over his chest. _Huh?_

“Stand, Rhea.” He gestures to the stepladder at the end of the medical table.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows, glances at him once for confirmation. He nods. She ignores the rush of blood from her head and places two wobbly feet onto the platform below the table.

Ben tears off the paper lining the medical bed; the sound of it makes her jump, makes her glance back behind her.

He balls it up in two large hands and tosses it aside.

“Don’t need to hear _crunch crunch crunch_ while you fuck her,” he comments to Cullen, who rolls his eyes.

“Of course you’d notice something like that.”

“It’s an obnoxious sound. Distracting.” Brown eyes—always deeper than she expects, more intense than seems appropriate—jump back to her. He gestures to the bed again. “Sit on the edge.”

It’s a perfect time to back-talk—to assert that she doesn’t care what he wants—but she can’t find it in herself to object. She feels herself turning, sitting down on the edge of the bed without complaint.

_Dammit._

Somewhere behind her, Ben bunches dark slacks around his thighs and hikes some of the pant leg up. He swings one limb over the bed, straddles it. Then he scoots up until his chest presses against her back, encircles her waist with his hands so he can pull her against him.

“There,” he coos into her ear knowingly. It’s controlling—self-righteous—but the tender undertones hook into her, make it harder to defy him. “That’s better, isn’t it.”

It sounds more statement than question. She lets her head move back to rest against his shoulder. There’s little point in arguing: it’s so obvious that this is, indeed, better.

She’s less cold.

So much less alone.

She nods just slightly, a little reluctant.

Master Ben moves behind her so his arms wrap around hers, so his shoulders feel like they’re encasing hers. She lets herself melds into the feel of him: she has little other option, really, and if she’s being honest, she might even—might even _want_ to—and—

“Shhhh. That’s enough.” He seems to know, somehow, that there’s something going on in her head. He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, moves his right hand up to wrap around her throat. Large, warm fingers stroke the skin there before giving a light, brief squeeze. Ben maneuvers her chin so she has little choice but to look at him.

“I take it you’ve gotten the disobedience out for today.” He waits for an answer. Her lips part; she blinks up at his gaze. “Is that right?”

Rhea swallows. She glances down at her hands, then back. She lets herself nod.

“That’s right?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracks on the word. She clears her throat again. “Yes, Sir.”

He nods once; that little sparkle in his eyes reappears just as it had when he’d flogged her. “Good. Then you’ve no need to worry.” Two fingers move up her neck to stroke along her jaw. “You belong to us now. Let us do the thinking. Your job is to feel and to obey.”

Her head nods before she fully processes the sentence. He nods along with her, holds eye contact for a long moment. She realizes somewhere in the saner part of her brain that he’s conditioning her; he’s mimicking some of her body language to reinforce the behavior he wants. It would annoy her except—

Except, for some reason, it doesn’t.

It makes her feel safer.

It’s all she can do to hold back the dumb smile that tries to form on her lips.

“We’re going to make all the decisions for you now.” His hand is back on her neck, fingers curling around it as if a makeshift collar, “And you want that, too, because you’re our sweet, submissive little whore.”

She thinks she feels her pupils dilating— _is that even possible?_ —and this time fails to keep her face so neutral. Her mouth falls a little open.

“Tell me.”

“I—” she stammers. “Which part.”

“You know which part.”

Stupid, nervous giggles bubble up in her chest; the rational side of her brain wants to punch out whoever _this_ Rhea is, wants to punch him too.

“I don’t—I don’t know if I can say that with a straight face.”

“I’ll accept ‘submissive little whore’ if ‘sweet’ is too lewd.”

 _That_ makes her laugh—at least, until she realizes that he’s still entirely serious.

“You’re for real.”

“Completely.” He meets her eyes levelly. “I gave you a command.”

She blanches. Rhea opens her mouth, then closes it.

“I—”

“ _Tell me,_ Rhea.”

It’s a little softer than she expects, though its firm undertone makes it clear she can’t disobey without consequence. There’s a husky quality to his voice now. It zaps her between her thighs; she can feel a wave of lubrication escape her. Ridiculous, really, what he manages to do with words alone—

“I’m. I’m a whore.”

It sounds absurd—she barely believes herself, so there’s no way he’ll find it pleasing—but surely saying it poorly is better than not saying it at all.

Master Ben’s face doesn’t register any disappointment. It occurs to her, with a confusing pang of her own disappointment, that he probably didn’t expect an exemplary performance.

Those long, warm fingers tighten so that he cups her jaw firmly.

“ _My_ whore,” he corrects.

“Your whore,” she repeats back to him, voice barely a ghost of a whisper.

He gazes at her mouth for a long moment.

“And what kind of whore are you?”

She knows the answer, but it gets lost in her throat.

“ _Rhea_.”

She swallows.

“A submissive one.”

She deludes herself into thinking, for the briefest of moments, that he’s done, that now he’ll let up.

His grip on her chin remains just as steadfast.

“String those all together for me.”

She wants to look away—manages to, for a second—but her eyes dart back to his compulsively. She can’t turn her head, can’t escape from him. His control is absolute: he’s going to _make her_ say it.

“I’m your submissive. Little. Whore. _Sir_.”

The ‘Sir’ at the end isn’t even punchy: it’s honest.

_Fuck._

His face transforms: a shade of smugness settles across his features, but so too does— _what is it?_ – _pride?_

“Yes you are.” Something just under his eye jumps. “Well,” he cocks his head slightly, wryly, “and his.” He pauses only a second, redoubles the intensity of his gaze. “But mostly mine.”

That part doesn’t seem so playful, a suspicion seemingly confirmed when Cullen— _oh, shit, Cullen_ —speaks again.

“Hey. Don’t be an asshole. It’s _my_ scene.”

“And you asked me to step in.” Ben isn’t looking at her anymore, though she still looks at him. His gaze is beyond her now, filling her with the familiar feeling of being discussed like she isn’t there. “You knew this would happen.”

Master Cullen only rolls his eyes. The exchange between the two men doesn’t seem _entirely_ friendly, but she does think she spots a hint of a smirk on Cullen’s face. _So at least there’s that._

He steps back towards the table, places either hand on her knees so he can push them apart and settle himself between them.

He wears a new condom.

She looks between the man and his erection.

“Where do you want her?”

Master Ben’s breath is hot on her ear.

“Mhm,” Cullen looks her up and down, eyes lingering possessively over her much in the same way as the other Dom. “On her back is probably best for the both of us.”

She feels him nod; tendrils of his hair tickle the side of one cheek as he adjusts.

Ben pulls her back down along the table, one hand on her shoulder and one on her hip, until she’s fully laid down.

He guides the back of her head to rest on the table just beneath the lean muscle of his left thigh.

He sighs softly, has her lift her head so he can gather up her hair. He wraps it around his wrist and grasps the rest in one hand, not pulling but nevertheless holding her firmly.

She hasn’t been in many physical fights, but she knows enough from basic scrapping to know that if your opponent gets control of your head—grabs at your hair, yanks you by your ears, whatever—then you’ve lost.

She grapples with the reality of it: he’s the victor before they even start.


	23. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The length of 2 chapters for the price of 1.

She’s interrupted by a gentle tug.

“Let’s dispatch with all those pesky thoughts.” Master Ben looks down the length of her body, between her legs and back. “Rub your clit for me.”

She gazes up at him from where she’s held still by his thigh, gazes up at the hair which flanks his face, at the glint in his eyes, at the way he blocks out the harshest ceiling lights from beaming into hers.

Of all the commands he’s given her, this may well be the easiest to follow.

She obeys, not daring to look away, and reaches an arm down between her thighs. She slips three fingers just between her outer folds and starts to rub her clit in small circles.

Her mouth parts to let out a series of quiet, shaky breaths. Master Ben holds her head still, hand gripping closer to her scalp, seemingly refusing to look away from her.

He must know something she doesn’t because it _does_ something to her. Suddenly everything is easier, more natural. The instinctual resistance she feels—the urge to deny their connection, to run away from it all—flows away and fades quickly. Animal brain takes over, spurred on by the heat of his eye contact.

_He’s big, and his shoulders are so broad, and—_

_And_ of course _she should call him Sir—_

_Do everything she can to earn his approval—_

“Look how wet you are.”

He speaks, voice low, just for her, but it doesn’t break the spell. The deep timbre of his voice compels her to look down between her legs.

She _is_ wet; the lubrication on her inner thighs might have embarrassed her some other time, but not now. Now it simply feels like a fact of life, a completely natural byproduct of suddenly feeling so aroused.

“Tell Master Cullen how eager you are for his cock.”

She looks between him and the other Dom, lips still parted in her breathless state.

_Yes, yes, what a good idea—_

She meets the eyes of the other man, the one stationed between her legs. “Please,” she hears herself saying, all self-consciousness wiped away. “Please, I want your cock. I’ve wanted it since,” she hiccups, canting her hips a little into her hand, “since I came here. You were—were good to me—and—” she takes in a few more shuddering breaths, rubbing faster at her clit. “ _I’m sorry_ —”

Cullen’s cock jumps twice as she begs for him. He casts a glance overhead, at the other Dom, and bends to catch each of her feet in his hands. He pushes up, up, bends her knees and pushes her legs down and on either side of her chest, far further and more open than she’s ever been before.

Then Ben’s hands replace his, grasping her from the reverse direction under her knees. He presses down a little further, testing her resistance, her flexibility.

She can’t help but mewl.

“Good little submissive,” that rich voice speaks again, forcing the slight curl of a smile onto her lips. “You’re going to service us.”

Her pussy clenches. Hard.

She feels herself nodding along thoughtlessly to his directive.

Cullen’s slides his length between her slicked folds and this time, instead of the zing of panic, she sees the collisions of stars.

Ben taps at the underside of her leg, just hard enough to get her attention back on him again.

“Say _‘Master Cullen, please enjoy using my wet, hot cunt.’_ ”

Her mouth falls open a little more from the mere shock of it—from him saying something so vulgar, sure, but especially because it somehow sounds like a _great_ idea.

“I—”

“Tell him.”

She looks down her body, looks up at Cullen, at the expectant expression on his face. He _wants_ to hear it.

“Master Cullen—” she nearly moans it, takes several short shuddering breaths to try to calm herself. Still, she rubs at her clit faster, her only savior from feeling sweeping embarrassment. “Please enjoy using my hot, wet cunt.”

Part of her wants to shake her head the moment the words leave her lips—no doubt the most whorish thing she’s ever said. It should feel ridiculous, and its crazier still that it _doesn’t_. But the other part savors how Cullen smirks, how pleased he looks, how his face flushes with hunger and promise and desire.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice lower than usual, slightly strained. He reaches between her legs, grasps at his cock, and presses the head of it against her entrance. “I will.”

He winks at her just before he snaps his hips and—

And—

She hears herself crying out. She feels her body shudder, her hand fall by the side of her hip.

Cullen freezes.

The men exchange concerned glances.

“Been a long time?” Cullen grits out, half-between his teeth, obviously fighting against the urge to keep moving within her.

She clenches down on him once, feels her walls slowly adapting to the feeling that used to be so familiar.

She looks away from them both.

It hurts to say.

“Yeah.”

It’s a soft, quiet admission. It’s embarrassing, really, to show up to a sex club having not had any in so long. And now they know: they know that she’s not nearly as sexually active and fearless as she tries to present.

Cullen pulls back, just slightly, then rocks back in again. He repeats this motion—in and out, in and out—slowly rocking his hips each time, working her open.

“Don’t worry, love.” She watches him through partly teary eyes as he reaches out, trades places with Ben so that it’s his hands holding her down again as he moves inside of her. “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck you open again.”

She swallows and nods, even as one of Ben’s hands guides hers back to her clit.

“Continue,” the deeper voice murmurs from overhead.

She looks up at the Dom.

He smiles, just slightly, warm and gentle. It’s a moment of tender reprieve in the middle of an otherwise horny frenzy.

Cullen slows as she starts rubbing her clit again. The effect is immediate; she feels another roll of lubrication coat him, another experimental clench around his length. It barely takes a few seconds before it starts to feel good.

Both Doms seem to wait until the relief is plastered obviously on her face to continue openly topping her.

Cullen gives a series of harder shoves—it makes her eyes roll back for the briefest of moments—and grunts his approval.

“Good girl.” A thrust, and “— _fuck_ —good girl. That’s more like it.”

The feel of a man inside her had started to fade. Now it comes hurtling back, shocking older neural pathways to life again. Her head starts to lull to the side from the rush of it and—

And that’s when she notices it: the obvious tent of an erection in the pants of the Dominant behind her.

She stares, a little open-mouthed, stopping to bask in the relief of it.

It feels like victory.

“Looking at something?”

She jumps a little, meets the eyes of the man above her. He skirts the fingers of one hand over the side of her face, featherlight, coming to rest over her throat.

“You’re finally hard.”

“ _’Finally’_?”

“I—” _shit_ , she thinks, _that sounded offensive_. “You haven’t been hard with me before.”

Confusion registers on Master Ben’s face. An amused smirk quirks his lips. “That is _absolutely_ untrue.”

She opens her mouth. Then she closes it. “But—”

A chuckle catches in his throat. “I flip my cock up into my waistband when I need to. And I have excellent control over myself. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t noticed.”

Cullen thrusts rhythmically now, pushing her back into Ben each time. Her eyes move lower—he doesn’t make any snappy remark—until she’s nearly face to face with the tented fabric again. The urge to reach out, to touch him, grows and grows.

She needs to ground herself—

Needs to feel him—

He palms himself through his slacks. She can’t look away.

He continues, making her increasingly unsure whether he’s teasing himself or her.

The fingers of his other hand slink back into her hair, fisting once so she can feel it. Then he twirls a finger or two, wrapping strands around them, leaving ghosts of ringlets behind.

She isn’t sure whether its spurred on by the throbbing in her clit or if it’s just a random flash of courage and insanity, but the words tumble out regardless.

“I thought you said I was servicing _‘us.’_ ” She says it a little pouty—not entirely intentional, but not at all to bad effect. _Damn._ “Who’s ‘us’?”

It skirts the line between challenge and question just closely enough that she isn’t sure how exactly it’ll work out.

He must know that, too, for his eyes flash with a fiery heat—whether lust or anger, though, she can’t immediately tell.

She realizes she’s about to find out pretty quickly when he drags her shoulders and the rest of her body diagonally across the bed and over to one side and, in doing so, creates a space next to her.

He maneuvers to kneel there and she finds it hard to resist admiring him, his body, the confidence with which he towers over her and undoes the buckle of his belt.

He pulls it through its loops, slowly, holding her gaze. Then he lays the belt, warm with his body heat, across her stomach.

“There are other uses for my belt. Remember that.”

She clenches around Cullen, who grunts and gives a harder shove.

Master Ben undoes the button on his slacks, drags down the zipper. He pushes them down his body to rest on upper, well-muscled thighs.

Then he reaches into the opening of black boxers, still holding her gaze, and pulls out his half-hard cock.

She hears herself choke.

He’s big, of course—that part comes as no surprise. But his cock is… _beautiful?_ It rests partially in the sheath of foreskin retracted only halfway over the ridged head. His entire length is thick, especially his tip, already slick with his pre-cum. He’s long enough to hit every deep spot without being too long to ever take fully. His veins are visible along his length, bulging just enough to demonstrate his desire without looking outright frightening.

She nearly rolls her eyes. Another great cosmic injustice. “Of _course_ you have a cock like that.”

Ben raises a brow, left hand slinking back into her hair to fist in it.

“God’s hand really slipped when he made you, huh.”

It comes out breathy, less confident than she meant it to sound—more wanton.

“Excuse me?”

“Shit,” Cullen spits between breaths which grow more ragged as he thrusts, “we fling her too far into subspace?”

Ben surveys her face. “I’m not sure.” He tugs her hair again, a little rougher this time. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“He just really gave you everything,” she pants, lungs not fully expanding with each breath. “He forgot to dock you points elsewhere to make up for it all.” She frowns, more to herself than anyone else. “Didn’t leave enough for the rest of us.”

Annoying. It’s so annoying, honestly, how he manages to _look like that_ and _have that cock_ at the same time.

He’s probably smart and successful, too.

The fucking bastard.

Ben smirks now; Cullen groans audibly between her legs. “ _God._ Shut up and suck his cock already.”

He thrusts harder, a little shorter, possible punishment for giving the other Dom her attention.

“And you,” he nods at Ben, “masturbatory bastard. Get on with it.” He shakes his head, flicker of amusement mixed with some genuine irritation. “You two are equally obnoxious. You really are made for each other.”

Ben huffs out a breath of laughter, rubs the pads of his fingers along her scalp.

He twists the length of her hair around his wrist again, collecting the rest in his fist.

“Come here,” he orders, pulling her by her hair so her face rests closer to him, tilts towards his body. “You know what you’re going to do for me?”

She blinks. “Suck your cock?”

He chuckles. “Do you really think you deserve a mouthful of my cock?”

She looks between him and his length, which twitches once at her gaze. He palms himself, growing more erect.

“I…” she looks away. She’s not really sure how to answer. A small pang of regret twinges in her chest. Maybe she should’ve behaved better after all. “Maybe?”

He retracts his foreskin, uses it to massage up and down over the head.

“I’m not putting my cock in your mouth while he’s jostling you around like that.”

Cullen makes a face. She nearly smiles at it.

“No,” Ben continues, pulling her attention back to him. “We’re going to put that sharp little tongue to good use.” He strokes himself just slightly faster, hardening his cock to its full length. “I seem to recall some mention of an oral fixation. What a shame no one has explored that further with you.”

She just stares, mouth filling with spit, too hypnotized to do much else.

“Well,” he continues. “We start today. Stick your tongue out.”

She does, quietly assuring herself its because she has no other option, and _definitely not_ because she wants to taste his cock—

“There you go,” he murmurs, rubbing into her scalp again. The skin there tingles. “That’s a good submissive. You can start by lapping up my pre-cum.”

She nods automatically; he tugs on her hair. “What do you say?”

“Yes—yes, Sir.” Her brain feels like her oxygen saturation must’ve fallen—like she needs to take much deeper breaths to think clearly—

“And?”

“Thank you, Sir.” She redoubles her efforts to rub at her clit. She clenches down on Cullen, who grips her thighs tighter in his hands.

Ben smirks approvingly, victorious. “That’s right.” He leans down, a little bit over her body. He fists his cock, guides the heavy tip to rest on her tongue.

She hears herself moan—involuntarily, obscene—and darts her tongue over his slit, tasting the beginnings of his seed.

He’s clean, skin warm and slightly salty against her tongue.

He suppresses his own moan somewhere in his chest. “Good girl. Lick it all up.”

She does: she’s _happy_ to.

“How do I taste?”

“Good. Good. You taste good. Sir.”

Master Ben rewards her by smiling down at her. “Good.” He lifts the tip off her tongue, strokes the full length of himself a few times before moving to primarily massage the head and its ridge. “Lay your tongue flat.”

She does, and he leans forward again, fist clenching tighter in her hair, restricting her from movement. He strokes the underside of his cockhead with her tongue, thrusting just inches back and forth.

He grunts; she thinks she sees his eyes close for a moment.

“Now form more of a tip.”

She does; he rubs his cock against it in much the same way, sliding the soft, focused tip of her tongue along the sensitive connective tissue just beneath the head.

“Mhm. Fuck. I can’t tell which I like more.” He groans again—the whole thing is obscene, and she knows that, but it feels _so sexy_ in the moment—and sets a rhythm of short, quick strokes. “I’ll have you alternate for me.”

She does, of course, this time without objection. The thought to disobey doesn’t even cross her mind—only the sensations she’s feeling and the pleasure she’s giving.

It doesn’t take long for more pre-cum to bead at the end of his cock.

“Clean that,” he commands.

She wipes her tongue over the head, earning another groan and the twitch of his cock.

“Good girl.” He uses the fist in her hair to bring her closer so he can rub his length over her face. “Learn your place,” he croons, guiding his member back to thrust over her tongue. “This is what your mouth is good for. Not talking back: serving my cock.”

She feels herself start nodding in agreement even as some distant part of her personality screams and yells in fierce objection. He huffs; she finds herself growing hot with the realization that he’s short of breath, too.

“Isn’t that right?”

She nods again; he mirrors her.

“Yes.” His cock slides off the side of her tongue as she answers, pulling a thick line of spit with it, connecting the two. “Yes, Sir.”

“Very good.” He caresses the side of her face with his right hand before positioning his cock again. “Now be quiet and serve me.”

So, she does.

Rhea feels the last tendrils of doubt fade into the background. She grows more comfortable—excited, even—with being used by him.

“You know why the cock is shaped like this?” he asks after a while. There’s a sliver of danger in his voice.

She manages to shake her head just slightly.

“The head evolved into this shape because it’s a plunger: men with thicker, ridged heads found more reproductive success. They were able to plunge out the semen of other men and replace it with their own.”

There’s something about the juxtaposition of the science lesson, the casual way in which he gives it, and the wet slide of his cock above her that makes her shudder and her cunt clench.

She can’t help but look between him and Cullen.

_Is he—?_

“Are you able to control the muscles in your pussy?”

She slobbers a little on his cock. “Mostly—”

“Good. Milk his cock then. Try to get him to finish up. I’m growing tired of sharing.”

_He is._

Cullen says something, but the exact words get lost to the sound of blood rushing in her ears. She tenses around him; green eyes full of lust meet hers.

“Go on then,” the Dom goads playfully, “you were told to make me come.”

Rhea nods quickly, clenches her pelvic floor until she gets a reaction. Soon she learns the rhythm he likes, how she can tense and squeeze around him through thrusts that grow quicker and quicker.

She eases up on her clit with regret; it’s better than coming in front of two Doms without permission. She’s certain _that_ wouldn’t fly.

She finds she has to sacrifice focus on one man for the other. So far, Cullen’s gotten the short end of the stick. She feels bad about it—truly, it’s not fair—so she tries to roll her hips, to reward him with some pleasant sensations for sticking around.

Master Ben slaps her cheek with cock, wet from her spit. “Focus. You’re getting sloppy.”

He takes her tongue between his thumb and pointer finger and pulls it, gently enough, out of her mouth as far as it can comfortably go.

“You have a job to do for both of us.”

She can only nod and try to please them both, as taxing as that is on her remaining mental bandwidth.

Cullen speeds up again, his thrusts growing shorter, seemingly spurred on by eye contact—though looking at him with another man’s cock on her tongue does cause her cheeks to glow a little red.

“ _Fuck_ —look how far you’ve come—”

His hips pound in quick strokes.

She tries to squeeze him in waves of contractions like her pussy does when she comes.

It sends him over the edge, apparently; his hips stutter, giving uneven thrusts while he lets out a loud grunt, then hisses through his teeth.

“ _Shit—mphfg_ —that’s nice.”

He lingers in her only a few moments, thumbs grazing the skin under her knees. Then he helps her slowly extend her legs again— _gods, it feels good to stretch after being folded by force like a pretzel_ —and grips at the base of the condom to pull out.

Rhea fails to fully suppress the whimper that escapes her at the newfound lack of fullness.

Cullen smirks himself and spreads her folds open with his thumbs. He makes a clicking noise of assessment in the back of his throat. “There,” he murmurs appreciatively. “All fucked open again.”

She clamps down but finds nothing to grip. Another involuntary whine slips out.

“Hush now. Take care of Master Ben.”

The other man takes it as a cue to speak. “Toss me a hand towel, will you?”

“Sure.”

Something white, fluffy, and square flies overhead a moment later; the Dom catches it in his free right hand.

Cullen chucks the condom in a nearby bio-bin, then leans against one of the counters to watch the remaining scene.

Ben, for his part, releases the grip on her hair, laying it out behind her. She feels an odd pang of disappointment at the loss of tension, the loss of touch—that is, until he swings a leg over and straddles her upper chest.

He lets his cock jut out over her chin. It bobs once when her eyes dart between his and his length.

She watches curiously as he lays the towel out over her hair, tucking her hair under and behind her ears. It stops just centimeters in front of her hairline, covering a thin strip of forehead.

“You know what I’m doing, Rhea?” He asks. His voice has that dangerous, silky quality to it again. She could listen to it forever, she thinks. He could use it to compel her to do anything. “I’m making preparations to come on your face.”

Her brain must flash blank for several seconds; her mouth definitely parts in a little ‘o’ of shock.

She’s never been spoken to that way—so matter of fact, so controlled, so _vulgar_ —and it _does_ something to her.

A lot, actually.

_“Shit.”_

“Mhm. There’s that mouth again. Perhaps we’ll have to keep it occupied.”

She ignores the zing at her clit, the uncomfortable wetness pooling between her legs and coating her upper thighs.

There’s little she can do about it, anyway: her arms are pinned under his thighs. She tries to rub her own together to gain friction, but the slick between her legs makes it hard to fully get the stimulation she needs.

It’s so frustrating—but also, somehow, manages to feel exactly right.

She finds herself nodding in ascent.

He hums again, lifts himself slightly off her to angle his cock towards her mouth.

“Go ahead, then. Suck me until I decide to come.”

He places the tip of his cock in her mouth for her—and gods, somehow it feels so good.

She laves her tongue over him, over the underside, hollows out her cheeks.

His breathless grunts and the rhythm of his hips feel like reward enough.

She’s never exactly had her mouth fucked slowly… but that’s what he does. She finds his hand back in her hair, watches him flex his hips only a few inches, pushing in and out. Forcing her somehow to hold his gaze.

“That’s right,” he murmurs softly.

She wants to—to curl her forearms up, to rub at his thighs. A fuzzy sensation gradually takes over her brain, no doubt numbing her judgement. She does—curl them, reach out with her palms resting on the back of either of his thighs.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

Rhea hesitates, tries to shake her head. She removes her hands quickly.

“You. Ask. Me,” he breathes, thrusting thrice into her mouth to emphasize his point.

 _Bit hard with a mouth full of cock_ , but she understands the general sentiment—

“Now put your hands back on me.”

_Oh._

She does, of course—feels so good to rub at him, to gently spur him on, encourage him. Maybe that’s why he allows it.

“Go on. Rub your clit for me.”

He breathes his permission, and its all she needs. She reaches between her thighs and rubs circles into her clit again, unable to suppress the moan of need that escapes her throat and vibrates through his cockhead.

“Do you think you can come from sucking my cock?”

He asks it but doesn’t pull out. She’s left to attempt to nod between slow, lurid thrusts.

“Good. Do it.”

She tries—really tries. She scrunches up her eyes like she does naturally when she feels so close—then wrenches them back open, still under the unshakeable spell his own gaze seems to hold over her. She tries to keep steady, tries not to toss her head from side to side like she does for some reason whenever she gets close.

She does, however, curl the shit out of her toes. Her legs start to shake. They hang entirely off the end of the bed along with an inch or two of her ass.

Her eyes start to water with the pressing need of it, with the frustration of not quite being able to get there. Her hips try and fail to lift.

“Do it. Come.”

It’s an order and, worse, she finds that the words are exactly what she needs to get there.

Her hips do lift off—he holds her upper half down with both hands, still thrusting slowly, obnoxiously controlled—and she feels herself repeatedly clench on nothing, feels the involuntary moans of relief escaping her throat and vibrating through him.

He pulls his cock from the suction of her mouth with a soft pop.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. She watches just long enough to see the blur of his hand fisting his cock. “Close your eyes. I’m close. Don’t open your mouth unless you want a taste of cum.”

She obeys, circling her clit gently through aftershocks, needing to toe the line between pleasure and painful overstimulation.

He grunts somewhere above her, free hand moving under her chin so his thumb rests on it, the rest of his fingers beneath it.

He starts to come in hot strips, each accompanied by a frenzied breath.

She feels only a warm staticky pleasure in her brain; she leans into the feeling of finally having outward proof that he wants her.

Maybe that’s why, emboldened by his excited breaths and the drunken floating feeling in her head, she licks her lips once and opens her mouth.

“Fuck—” his voice cracks and sputters overhead; he grunts out a string of incomplete curse words and choice phrases.

She’s not surprised, then, when she feels the next several jets of cum land on her tongue.

A dizzy little giggle grows in her chest, puts a small smile on her lips. She’s never much minded the texture of cum—only really when the man is an asshole about it—and his tastes pretty neutral as far as cum goes. He probably eats super clean or something pretentious like that.

“ _Shit_ ,” he half-groans through the last bursts of his orgasm, the remaining spurts of cum less precise, more liquid, landing mostly close to his cock and rolling down her chin.

He sits back on her chest again when done, obviously taking care not to rest the full extent of his weight on her. She feels little tremors shake his thighs; it makes her smile against the better wishes now buried deep, deep within her brain.

Rhea feels him swipe the tip of his cock over her tongue, depositing the last of his semen there.

“You may spit if you prefer.”

She nearly chuckles herself. _That’s nice_ , she thinks vaguely, but her choice feels only natural in the moment.

She closes her mouth, lets his cum pool near the back of her throat, and swallows.

She sticks her tongue out when done.

He makes that same groan of pleasure—it almost sounds like he’s in mild pain—and, somewhere above her, he rubs at his face.

He takes a deep breath, lets it expand his chest.

“Good girl.” A pause. “And my taste?”

Her cheeks color—just a little—but answering no longer feels so embarrassing. “Fine. Good.” She clears her throat, eyes still closed. There’s a strip of cum just above and below and she isn’t trying to get it in her eyelashes. “You must eat well.”

That earns a chuckle; she can hear the fondness, the approval in his voice. “I do try to not eat like an asshole before play days.”

They lapse into silence for a few moments. She finds that she’s perturbed the most by how _comfortable_ that silence is for her.

“How do you feel?”

She parts her lips to answer, then closes them again. She feels so many things. She isn’t sure how to answer.

“I…”

“Do you find this more humiliating, or more rewarding?”

Her cheeks heat again. There’s only one honest answer, even if it’s not nearly the one she wants to give.

“More… rewarding.”

He makes a noise of approval in his throat, strokes the side of her jaw with his thumb.

“Good. Then I want you to stay like that while I clean up.”

So she stays like that, on her back, face half covered in his come, and grows progressively more horrified as she realizes that she _likes_ it. Loves the feeling of possession.

Rhea hears cabinets open and close after he gets up, some rustling of plastic. She hears the distinctive sound of fabric, of a zipper being pulled up.

His cum has turned more liquid by the time he’s finished. She stays as still as she can in the hopes that it won’t roll down around her ears and get into the wisps of her hairline.

A big hand places itself on her shoulder.

“Warm towel,” she hears him say. _God, that voice_ —she wants to roll over, mess be damned, and snuggle into the crook of his neck already.

Even if she knows, intellectually, that he’s a bastard—that she should hate this… she doesn’t.

He cleans the mess off her face with more tenderness than she would expect, swiping gently to avoid reddening her skin, folding the towel over when he needs clean spots.

She leans into the sensation of her own chest rising and falling, of the momentary lapse in self-consciousness. She wishes she could feel so peaceful all the time.

He tosses the towel away when he finishes, loops his arms under hers to pull her up slowly. Blood redistributes through her body, but she manages to avoid a headache.

Rhea hardly knows what to expect when she opens her eyes. A self-righteous smirk, perhaps? The triumph of victory written over his features? She’ll probably reverse course, want to hop off the table and run. Feeling this good never lasts long; living for so many years within the First Order has caused her to foster an inherent distrust of letting her guard down, of relaxing.

When she opens, though, she doesn’t find any of those things—just a man, brown eyes full of something she can’t quite identify, standing before her.

He leans in before she can really react, caging her in with arms on either side of her. A thick forearm snakes up the small of her back and pulls her into him.

He takes her mouth, confident in his approach yet somehow tender, convincing her wordlessly to open her mouth, to share with him. His tongue tastes hers, invading another small part of her body, breaking another tiny piece of her resolve.

She can smell a hint of bourbon on his breath, the comforting, rich smell of myrrh from cologne she only ever smells when she’s pressed close to him.

It all feels so familiar.

She allows him to claim her, if just for a moment.


End file.
